


The Insufferability of the Scarlet Pimpernel

by kittychan_in_wonderland



Series: The Adventures of the Anti-SP Division [1]
Category: The Scarlet Pimpernel (1934), The Scarlet Pimpernel - All Media Types, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Baroness Orczy, The Scarlet Pimpernel - Wildhorn/Knighton
Genre: Farce, Gen, Humor, there is plot too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittychan_in_wonderland/pseuds/kittychan_in_wonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chauvelin is actually on the side of good, just trying to rescue a few innocents from the guillotine...if only that unbearable Scarlet Pimpernel would stop getting in the way and spoiling his plans!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. La Division Anti-Penchants Subversifs: September, 1792

**Author's Note:**

> I realized that there were simply not enough silly Scarlet Pimpernel stories so I wrote this one starring Chauvelin.
> 
> In terms of inspiration it draws most heavily from the book and musical (specifically the Japanese production by the all-female Takarazuka Revue) but with nods to some other adaptations as well.
> 
> Many many thanks to [lirin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lirin) for poring over my drafts, finding areas that needed improvement, and making sure all the wording was properly Britishised.
> 
> (The cover was made myself using my laptop's trackpad and a screencap of my favourite Takarazuka Percy and Chauvelin.)

 

* * *

 

As the latest refugee from the maelstrom of bloodshed and terror that was Revolutionary France, the Baronne du Blois was received generously by the Prince of Wales and his circle, all of whom were eager to hear an account of her escape.

"And was it the Scarlet Pimpernel who rescued you, pray tell?" one of the ladies asked.

" _Mais non,_ " the Baronne replied. "No, it was one of my own countrymen who helped me escape."

"But it could have been the Pimpernel in disguise!" her interlocutor persisted.

"It was not the Pimpernel, I tell you," insisted the Baronne.

"Perhaps he said something about the Scarlet Pimpernel, though?"

"In fact he did, but..."

"What did he say?" "Tell us!" demanded the Baronne's listeners.

"Well..."

"Come, we must know!"

"He said that 'The Scarlet Pimpernel is an idiot nincompoop upstart of an English fool who wouldn't know the pointy end of a sword until it stabbed him in the face and maybe not even then'," recited the Baronne.

A horrified silence followed this grave slander upon the hero of all stalwart citizens of Albion. The Baronne, realising how serious an indelicacy she had committed, turned pale. "You did ask..."

Suddenly the shocked silence was broken by an inane titter from one corner of the room, as Sir Percy Blakeney began to laugh. “Zounds, but your secretive friend has a way with words!” he exclaimed between peals of infectious gaiety. “Sink me if that isn’t the funniest thing since Ffoulkes wore that monstrosity of a cravat last winter!”

Sir Andrew Ffoulkes grimaced at this reminder of his error in fashion, but laughed at the jest all the same. And what had amused Sir Percy, that prize wit of the Prince of Wales, must perforce amuse the rest of the company, such that thereafter the Baronne no longer had to fear for her welcome in England.

* * *

_Some weeks later…_

The Rue des Florentines, so named for an Italian merchant who had situated his store there in the last century, had at one time been a cheerful, bustling commercial street. But once the Revolution occurred, it was unfortunate enough to be near where the Committee of Public Safety chose to place its headquarters. The atmosphere of terror created by the Committee soon spread to the Rue des Florentines, and now only a few dingy shops clung on, the rest having either been deserted by their owners or confiscated at the privilege of the State.

It was in the Rue des Florentines that Chauvelin’s personal section of the Committee of Public Safety—the _Division Anti-Penchants Subversifs_ (in English, the initials became something rather unfortunate, anent which Chauvelin was certain he had heard every possible jest and witticism)—had made its home in an old but well-kept inn and stable whose bourgeois owner had been wise enough to vacate the property and flee to England at his first opportunity.

The inn was small, but so was the Anti-SP Division. (When Chauvelin found out which Committee member was responsible for that title he would make them understand the real meaning of terror!) Usually, they operated quietly enough that apart from the few Republican soldiers leaving or entering from time to time, the remaining shops barely even noticed that they were there.

Today, however, they could not help but notice, for Chauvelin was furious. Even across the street, the shouting emanating from the inn could be heard easily, although not well enough for the words to be distinguished.

“Curse that Scarlet Pimpernel!”

Chauvelin slammed his fists down on his desk so hard that the candlestick upon it trembled and threatened to fall. “This is the second time this month that he’s had the audacity to...argh!”

Henri Desgas, Chauvelin’s ever-loyal factotum, put out a hand to steady the candlestick as his superior’s fist came down on the much-abused desk once again. “What has he done now?” he asked calmly (for he was never anything else, no matter how dire the situation).

“Merely rescued the de Tournays and thrown all the police and guards into a fever to catch anyone who looks like an aristo or an Englishman,” Chauvelin related with a sigh, calmer now that he had released some of his fury. “And us with a Marquise in the cellar and an inspection scheduled for tomorrow.”

By this point, the door to Chauvelin’s upstairs office had opened to admit his subordinate conspirators Antoine Dufour and Sebastienne Pierrefonds (known as Sebastien to anyone outside the Anti-SP Division, not to mention within it as well for the several months before her secret had been discovered). They had been attracted by their leader’s atypical outburst of emotion. Sebastienne made as if to sit upon the corner of Chauvelin’s desk, but her smaller and more decorous companion pulled her away to stand beside him.

“What happened, Citizen Chauvelin?” Antoine asked. “Have we been discovered? Is it time for our emergency scenario?”

“No, it’s nothing unmanageable with a little effort,” declared Chauvelin, sorting through a stack of papers as he mulled over what sort of arrangement he could make to solve their current issue. “Just our bosom _nuisance_ , the Scarlet Pimpernel, demonstrating his impeccable timing once again.”

“Shall I assassinate him for you?” suggested Sebastienne, unbuttoning the perfectly tailored jacket of her uniform to reach, no doubt, for some fiendish implement.

“Yes, that sounds won—” Chauvelin began with heartfelt eagerness before realising that he was voicing his desires aloud. “Wait, no! I mean no!”

No one in the room dared to state that he had sounded much more truthful with his first statement, but he could tell that they were all thinking precisely that.

“Much as I would like to accept your kind offer,” he continued, “we can’t afford to dispose of the Pimpernel at this juncture. If the Scarlet Pimpernel’s career is cut short but condemned aristos keep vanishing, sooner or later the Committee of Public Safety is certain to realise that someone in France is responsible.”

Sebastienne pouted, and Antoine reached up to pat her shoulder comfortingly. They had all been somewhat confined lately, Chauvelin recalled: the affair of the Marquise du Fortier had encompassed nearly two weeks already, during which none of his little company could be spared to even leave the neighborhood. With the Committee of Public Safety both funding them—quite meagerly, it must be noted—and simultaneously attempting to bring them to the justice of Madame Guillotine, it was no wonder they were eager for action.

“We’ll get the Marquise and her children out of the city by tomorrow morning,” Chauvelin declared finally. “Then I’ll have another job for you to do—and for once, you will be doing your actual job. The Committee of Public Safety has decided that I will be sent to England as an envoy of the Republican government. Of course, the real idea will be for me to discover the Scarlet Pimpernel’s identity, which suits our own purposes for the moment. Recently, I found out where in England the Pimpernel stops off after his trips to France. Since we know very well that he has just rescued the de Tournays, he should be arriving there sometime around the end of the week. Pierrefonds, Dufour, you two will go there and see if you can find any possible clue to the Pimpernel’s identity. I will have already arrived in London. Alert me at once if you find anything.”

Antoine and Sebastienne saluted and left the office in high spirits, while Chauvelin returned to putting some finishing touches on his plan for the escape of the Marquise du Fortier. Aristo-rescuing was no doubt the most lucrative business he had ever participated in—if only it weren’t for the Pimpernel continually calling attention to the fact that aristos were vanishing from the clutches of the Revolution, he wouldn’t have had a care in the world.

* * *

Quite the opposite of the current tawdry, woebegone state of the Rue des Florentines, the Dover inn known as The Fisherman’s Rest was a homely, cheerful place.

That is, if one were lucky enough to actually be inside the building. Sebastienne and Antoine were not, and frigid rain was pouring down in sheets.

“If this is what England is like, no wonder the Pimpernel comes to France all the time,” Sebastienne complained, slipping off her overcoat and holding it up to shield them a little as she and Antoine nestled in the bushes on the hill overlooking The Fisherman’s Rest.

For the nonce, they had discarded their Republican uniforms for a pair of ordinary woolen suits, as once they entered the inn they would assume the guise of Belgian tradesmen. Justine Desgas—wife of Henri and supplier of the costumes Chauvelin’s company needed, even at the most inopportune of times—had attempted to find a gown suitable to the role for Sebastienne, but had been forced to compromise, as Sebastienne’s height and habit of secreting myriad weapons about her person made it a Herculean task to find a dress that would fit her.

This conclusion was somewhat disappointing to Antoine, who had been hoping to see the object of his affections wearing something especially becoming and thus had not been at all satisfied when she ended up in a plain blue suit and black overcoat. Still, their current position made up for it just a little.

Sebastienne sneezed, and Antoine pulled her closer to him under the coat. “If we have to wait another night for the de Tournays to show up here, I shall ask Citizen Chauvelin for a raise when we get back,” she grumbled, raising her spyglass to search the the road leading to the shore. _Liberté, égalité_ , and _fraternité_ were all very nice in concept but nothing to save up for a wedding on. “ _Nom d’un nom_ , if I were an aristo I would rather stay in France and take my chances instead of coming here to practically drown on solid ground!”

“You _are_ an aristo,” Antoine pointed out.

“But with so little to show for it that I doubt anyone would believe me even if I told them,” reparteed Sebastienne. “Which really just makes it—thank heaven, _finally_ a carriage!”

“Is it the de Tournays?” Antoine asked, leaning over her shoulder to look as well.

Sebastienne handed him the spyglass. “Looks like the description Chauvelin gave us,” she said. “Two women and a young man. They’re wearing French clothes too, and quite the worse for wear.”

“What about the other two men? The...fancy ones.” Indeed, the two young gallants aiding Mme. and Mlle. de Tournay from the carriage were turned out in the very latest of London fashions.

“They must work for the Pimpernel, which makes them our targets.” Standing up, Sebastienne slipped her coat back on and stretched before retrieving the spyglass from Antoine and tucking it into a pocket beside two pistols.

Antoine eyed the pistols with a worried expression. “Chauvelin also said ‘waylay discreetly,’ remember. And to ‘not do any lasting damage’.”

“Sure, sure. The inn will be fine. The Pimpernel’s underlings will be fine. Most importantly, we will be fine and have some very good arguments to make for a bonus on our next paycheque. Now let’s get this show on the road,” she finished, brushing some leaves off her coat before heading down the hill towards The Fisherman’s Rest.

* * *

“...and this is what we found,” Antoine concluded their report, indicating the papers that Sebastienne had laid out on Chauvelin’s desk.

Chauvelin had reached London two days before Sebastienne and Antoine arrived to make their report. He had expected that the British government would greet him coolly, but the degree to which he had been snubbed was, he thought, rather overdoing things. Still, he did his best to accomplish the (false) errands given him as pretext by the Republican government, while attempting to insinuate himself enough into society that there was a chance of hearing some rumour that would give him a clue to the true identity of the Pimpernel.

However, no matter what event he appeared at—and he had been to several already, including an atrocious German opera—as soon as his position was mentioned or his tricolour sash spotted everyone would become frigidly polite, and he had yet to have an opportunity to listen to the kind of idle chatter that he might be able to glean some information from.

Thus, he had been thrilled when his two lieutenants arrived in London with some real results to show for their little spy mission. He had to admit that he had been worried to send Pierrefonds off on her own with actual orders to engage in violence, but Dufour had a remarkably calming effect on her. To Chauvelin’s great relief, no damage had been done except for a couple of English worthies being knocked over the head—and Heaven knew he had felt like doing _that_ more than once himself over the past two days!

The two young gentlemen who had been ambushed at The Fisherman’s Rest were identified as Lord Antony Dewhurst and Sir Andrew Ffoulkes, members of an exceptionally frivolous set of London dandies. This at least narrowed the field somewhat, although not in a direction to Chauvelin’s taste.

The papers were mostly innocuous maps, one even scribbled on the back of a receipt for a cravat sold to Lord Antony, except for the last two. Of these, one was a small note saying that SP (Chauvelin again cursed the anonymous member of the Committee of Public Safety responsible for naming his department) would be in attendance at Lord Grenville’s ball on what was now the following day. The other was a letter, written in French: the contents were of little import, but it was addressed to SP and signed “Armand St. Just.”

Chauvelin realised that he was beaming: this was just the stroke of luck he needed to break through the Pimpernel’s web of trickery and disguises! “Oh, this is marvelous,” he said (scarcely realising he was speaking aloud) as he took a form from his pocket and filled it out.

“So that’s a _oui_ for the bonus, then?” Sebastienne enquired.

Chauvelin glared at the blot her interruption had caused him to make before looking back up at her. “I’ll think about it—we’re not back in France yet, after all. Now call me a carriage, I’m going visiting.”


	2. In the Garden

Chauvelin was still mulling over the exact details of his plan when his carriage stopped in front of the magnificent edifice known as Blakeney Manor. Three things, however, he was certain of. First, the Blakeneys could not possibly have failed to receive an invitation to Lord Grenville’s ball. Second, Marguerite was fashionable enough to be around Ffoulkes and Dewhurst without arousing suspicion. And third, he had a means of controlling her. Considering how their relationship had regressed, this would undoubtedly be necessary.

It had now been almost a year since he had last seen Marguerite, and well over two years since they had mutually broken things off. At the time, it had been relatively cordial, but Marguerite had always thought him to be the diehard revolutionary he had never actually been in the first place, and then the St. Cyr business had quite destroyed any affection left between them. At their final meeting, it had been clear that she not only disliked him but was rather afraid of him.

Chauvelin was now going to make both things worse. He felt rather a cad about using Marguerite this way, even if she did hate him now. Still, if he did not do _something_ about the Pimpernel in short order, the lives of at least a dozen people back in France would be in grave danger, including his own.

When the butler returned after announcing him, Chauvelin was informed that Milady was entertaining at present, but he could await her in the garden. Chauvelin was not in the least surprised to be unwelcome in her house, but the gardens of Blakeney Manor were not unpleasant, so if her intent had been to make him leave she would not be successful. There was even a nice breeze—if he could bring Sebastienne here, she might change her mind about English weather, but that was out of the question as she was still laid up in bed recovering from a cold.

By the time Marguerite Blakeney appeared, Chauvelin had been waiting for nearly twenty minutes. She swept into the garden and he had to struggle not to forget himself—after all, the days when they had been at the barricades side by side were well and truly over.

“ _Bonjour_ , Lady Blakeney,” Chauvelin greeted her, standing up from the bench where he had been waiting. “You look lovely.”

“I would rather hear that from anyone but you,” Marguerite snapped back. “What are you doing here?”

She looked flustered, and not entirely because of his presence. Chauvelin wondered what was the matter: she had seemed happy enough when her fiancé swept her away from the _Comédie-Française._ (Try as he might Chauvelin could not remember the man’s face, although he had a vague notion of someone tall, dense and handsome). Perhaps Marguerite was finding the life of a British noblewoman dull in comparison to the whirlwind gaiety of her Paris salons and the accolades of her theatrical admirers.

“Since I was already close I thought I might drop by,” he explained calmly. “Is it wrong for me to want to catch up with a comrade of the Revolution?”

“Do you wish to catch up with me like you ‘caught up’ with the St. Cyrs, then?”

Chauvelin grimaced slightly as Marguerite turned her back. _That_ had been quite the mess to clean up, and of necessity Marguerite was still in the dark about it. “The Committee of Public Safety has sent me as their representative,” he continued. “I merely wanted to ask some little assistance from you; you, who are the brightest light of London society, whereas I—”

“I will not spy for you, Chauvelin.”

She had him dead to rights, as usual. Yet again he regretted not recruiting her into his company when he had the chance—before that baronet had carried her off—but the St. Cyr affair had left him in doubt about her views concerning the Revolution and then it had been too late. He would have to use his leverage, but perhaps now was not the time.

Still, if he appeared too impersistent Marguerite might realise he was not acting according to what she believed his character to be, so he would have to keep up the act he had commenced. “Come now, Marguerite—” he began, catching her arm as she began to walk away.

“Don’t call me that, you—”

Whatever Marguerite had been about to say—and Chauvelin was not sorry to have been spared it, having seen her skill with sharp words during their time together—was interrupted when someone else entered the garden. Considering Marguerite’s abrupt shift in attitude from temper to girlish consternation, Chauvelin guessed this to be the infamous baronet, and glared at the intruder who had dared to interrupt his attempt at intrigue.

Chauvelin did not like to think himself prideful, but upon his examination of Sir Percy Blakeney, Bart., he could not help but feel that Marguerite had downgraded somewhat. His vague recollection of Marguerite’s husband was correct: Percy was certainly tall and had good features, but all that was overshadowed by the veritable aura of idiocy that radiated from his entire person. Chauvelin took a step back, in case it was contagious.

The other most noticeable thing about Sir Percy was his clothes. Chauvelin had seen some specimens of high fashion in London already, but Sir Percy topped them all, with massive swathes of lace in his cuffs and a cravat that must have taken hours to arrange properly. (Chauvelin did not see the point of cravats. His own was simple and tied as plainly as possible.)

“Who’s Frenchie?” this fashion plate inquired brusquely of Marguerite, eyeing Chauvelin through a jeweled quizzing-glass. His voice was just as irritating as the rest of him, Chauvelin noted.

“Oh, you met him in Paris, don’t you remember?” Marguerite was a marvelous actress, but Chauvelin could tell how she was straining to keep her smile on. Apparently Lord and Lady Blakeney were not the happy pair of lovebirds he had been led to believe: undoubtedly it was all the fault of that idiot. “He’s with the Committee of Public Safety; this is—”

“Ah!” the quizzing-glass made a graceful arc as Sir Percy beamed with recognition. “Chooberin.”

“ _Chauvelin_.” Poor Marguerite was trapped in England with a man who couldn’t even speak French properly! No wonder she was unhappy—this must be hell for her.

“So sorry, Monsieur ‘Chau-ve-lin’,” repeated Sir Percy, shaking Chauvelin’s hand a little too vigorously. Chauvelin cringed at his touch but Sir Percy didn’t seem to notice. “Will you be in England long?”

“For a week,” Chauvelin replied.

“Oh, we’ll see a lot of each other then.” Chauvelin shuddered at the thought, but Sir Percy was still talking. “Are you going to Lord Grenville’s masked ball to-morrow?”

“Yes…”

Sir Percy circled him, quizzing-glass in hand. “Good heavens, man! You wouldn’t wear...that, would you?”

Chauvelin’s silence answered for him. Sir Percy looked as if he might be ill. Then, before Chauvelin could react, Sir Percy had pounced upon him and seized him by the arm. “Listen, you can’t wear black, it’s simply not in right now and it looks dreadful on you anyway. You should wear... _scarlet_. It’s much more your colour.”

At the word ‘scarlet’ Chauvelin jumped, but Sir Percy was too witless to possibly have any connection to his (in the minds of the Committee of the Public Safety) nemesis. Shaking off Sir Percy’s grip—which was remarkably firm for such a nincompoop—Chauvelin took a step back.

“I can loan you some clothes,” Sir Percy continued enthusiastically. That was the trouble with fools: it took them far too long to realise that one disliked them, as proved by the fact that Sir Percy was still beaming with inane amiability. “You should have a hat with feathers, lots of feathers, they’re the latest thing, and some better boots and _definitely_ a nicer cravat, who sold you that dishcloth?”

“No. Thank. You.” Chauvelin snarled with all the icy incivility he could produce (which was quite a lot; he had had much opportunity to practice by chewing out incompetent guards in Paris).

Even faced with Chauvelin’s most frigid tones, Sir Percy only blinked with affable dullness. “Whatever you please, then,” he said, turning to leave the garden. “Cheerio!” he called back at them with a flutter of lace cuffs.

Once Sir Percy was well out of earshot Chauvelin turned back to Marguerite. “How on earth did you fall for—” he did not attempt to hide his shudder “— _that_?”

“I...I don’t...oh, what does it matter to you?”

That settled it. Chauvelin was still going have his little threat to hold over Marguerite, but he would make it up to her by doing _something_ about that horrid twit Percy.

“It doesn’t matter at all, I suppose,” he concluded, deciding that it was time for his own departure (Sir Percy’s appearance had completely spoiled the mood for Chauvelin’s original errand). “I look forward to seeing you at the ball, Milady.”

* * *

The next day, Chauvelin discovered that Sebastienne and Antoine were a little too excited at the prospect of going to a masquerade ball. He spent the entire morning negating their increasingly grand suggestions of potential costumes, insisting that they were going in their uniforms and that they were not going to the ball to enjoy themselves but to chase the Scarlet Pimpernel.

“How about going as Death?” suggested Sebastienne eagerly, showing him the sketches of her latest idea. “Look, it’s even black, and we can be your dark angels, and—”

“No.”

“It does look good,” Antoine timidly added his own opinion.

“I’ll admit that it’s better than some of your other ideas,” Chauvelin stated, “but I’m not going to wear a costume.”

“Not even the Three Musketeers?” Sebastienne suggested, holding up another sheet of sketches.

The tabards and feathered hats were less ostentatious than the prior costume had been, but gave too much of an impression of royalism for any decent Republican citizen to be caught wearing them. Chauvelin said so. “Besides, what would we do about D’Artagnan?” he added.

Sebastienne sighed loudly. “We’d be dressing as the _Three Musketeers,_ not the _Glorious Four,_ ” she declared pedantically. “ _Parbleu_ , it’s like you haven’t even read their memoirs...did you only see the play?”

“I don’t care what you call them or how many of them there are, we’re not dressing as them!” Chauvelin snapped, gathering up all the sketches Sebastienne had been throwing on his desk and shoving them back at her. “Now get out of here so I can think!”

Sebastienne was clearly about to stay and protest, but gave in to Antoine’s determined efforts to pull her out of the study and away from Chauvelin’s wrath. Once they had gone, Chauvelin leaned back in his chair to plan out his strategy for that evening. From this angle he could see a piece of paper under the desk—one of Sebastienne’s sketches had fallen to the floor. Chauvelin picked it up and was about to crumple it, but after actually taking a look at the images on it decided not to. The masquerade costume of Death was really quite a good design, although he wasn’t about to say so in her presence or she would probably take it for consent to actually wear a costume.

Despite forgoing a costume, in the interest of his own dignity in the face of high society Chauvelin did decide to arrange his cravat somewhat more stylishly, although nothing too elaborate. He did not want to risk Sir Percy erroneously thinking that he had taken his fashion advice. Sebastienne found him an hour later, struggling with the knot in front of a mirror. “Want some help?” she asked.

Gender notwithstanding, Sebastienne was invariably the most smartly turned out soldier in Paris and Chauvelin gladly let her work on the cravat. His only concern was that her hands were a little too close to his neck for comfort, considering her other skillsets.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” she said finally, letting Chauvelin study the reflected results of her handiwork. It was certainly better than anything Chauvelin could have done himself, while still being practical and tasteful enough that Sir Percy would undoubtedly find it frightfully dull. Chauvelin thought that was a delightful combination.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go as Death?” Sebastienne pleaded as Chauvelin arranged his tricolour sash across his coat. “I thought Antoine would look very cute as a dark angel. Or a Musketeer...he would have to be Aramis, because I would be Porthos and you couldn’t be anyone but Athos since you’re so—”

“ _No costumes,_ ” Chauvelin cut her off before the argument could begin again in earnest. “It’s too late for that anyway, we’ll be leaving for the ball in only a few hours.”

Beg as Sebastienne might, Chauvelin remained adamant, and he was still wearing his uniform when the carriage arrived to take them to Lord Grenville’s ball.

* * *

Chauvelin did not like the thought of being trapped with half the London upper crust for several hours, but the Pimpernel was going to be at the ball and therefore he had no choice.

Despite his newly-tied cravat—and really he did not expect anyone to notice the difference—his outcast position in British society was reinforced by the frigid non-reception he received when he was announced at the ball. He had arrived quite early, as he did not want to miss the Pimpernel if he proved to be a punctual fellow, and it was going to be a very long night. There was little he could do on his own at the moment, since no one would speak to him except with the briefest of niceties, so he lurked in a corner with Sebastienne and Antoine (who were quite disappointed at being shunned along with their superior) as he waited for Marguerite to arrive.

The Blakeneys made their appearance at the ball fashionably late, only minutes before the arrival of the Prince of Wales. This proved to be most serendipitous timing for Chauvelin, as Percy was quickly drawn into conversation with the Prince, leaving Marguerite quite alone.

She had not yet noticed Chauvelin’s presence, and he was able to follow her into a secluded nook of the ballroom behind a colonnade. “ _Bonsoir, Madame,_ ” he said over her shoulder.

Marguerite jumped and whirled around. “Chauvelin!” she gasped.

“I have been most eager to speak with you in private,” Chauvelin continued.

“I told you yesterday, I will not—”

“When you hear what I have to offer you in return, I wonder if you will change your mind…”

Being well acquainted with Chauvelin’s usual strategy, Marguerite could not but know that he only made threats, never ‘offers’. “And what might that be?” she asked, her voice trembling as she clutched her fan.

“How is your brother these days?”

“Armand? Why?”

“It is only that I fear he has fallen in with bad company, and without your assistance might end up in very grave danger.”

“What sort of ‘bad company’?” Marguerite tried to sound flippant. “You know how sensible he is.”

“It was not at all sensible of him to join the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

“The Scarlet—” Marguerite turned very white, nearly the colour of the marble column she sank back against in her shock.

Now that he had an advantage, Chauvelin pressed on. “It was even more foolish of him to write a letter that could identify him as a member of the Pimpernel’s league. Now, if that letter were to reach France, with the arrest warrant I have already written out…”

“Chauvelin, no!”

“He would certainly be guillotined,” Chauvelin finished triumphantly. “Unless, of course, I had given you the letter in exchange for your assistance. Then the warrant would be worthless.”

Marguerite closed her eyes and shuddered, but when she opened them again she looked quite calm—the actress had taken over. “What do you want me to do?”

“Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst are, I suspect, going to contact the Pimpernel, or the reverse. You will watch those two and relay to me any missive they might receive.”

“But...how?”

“Come, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Chauvelin replied. “Now remember Armand!”

Drawing herself to her full height, Marguerite glared at him coldly before stepping past him out of their little corner, making her way over to where Ffoulkes, Dewhurst, and some others of their circle were making light conversation with a group of ladies.

Marguerite had always been the clever one, and Chauvelin knew he could count on her to turn up something, especially with the motivation he had just given her. Satisfied with a job done...perhaps ’well’ was not the proper word to use, considering the means, but certainly effectively, Chauvelin stepped out into the ballroom to see what had become of Sebastienne and Antoine.

He had not made it even halfway across when an all-too-recognisable voice called out to him. “Oh, it’s Monsieur Chambertin!” Sir Percy Blakeney exclaimed. Chauvelin did not stop walking but Sir Percy quickly caught up with him, throwing an arm around his shoulders as if they were friends. “Demmed pleasant evening, isn’t it?” Sir Percy continued.

“It was,” Chauvelin replied, hoping that Sir Percy would take the hint that his presence was unwanted.

Unfortunately, any hint more subtle than a pistol aimed between the eyes seemed destined to be repelled by Sir Percy’s cheerful little bubble of foolishness.

“Lord Grenville throws a marvelous party when he has the mind for it,” Sir Percy said, completely failing to recognise the near-hatred in Chauvelin’s tone. “Have you danced yet?”

Turning to face his interlocutor, Chauvelin intended to say something cutting and drive the insufferable boor off, but found himself unable to speak in the presence of Sir Percy’s clothes.

When the Blakeneys had first been announced, Chauvelin had scarcely glanced at Sir Percy, as Marguerite had been his priority at the time. Thus, he was completely unprepared for what he now saw.

What Sir Percy was wearing was undoubtedly the most horrifically garish set of clothes Chauvelin had ever laid eyes on. His waistcoat and breeches practically glowed with gold thread, and his white knee boots were twined about with gold patterns. If it had just been that, the ensemble might have been bearable, but over his waistcoat Sir Percy was wearing a massive jacket in black-and-white stripes with pink trim. And as the finishing touch to this travesty of decency and good taste, a gigantic scarlet bow was fastened to his immensely elaborate cravat.

Chauvelin stood awestruck at this unearthly apparition, wondering whether clawing his own eyes out would do any good or if it had already been seared into his mind beyond rescue.

“Sink me, I knew you’d like it!” beamed Sir Percy, mistaking Chauvelin’s silence for appreciation. “It’s the very latest!”

Chauvelin winced and tried to walk away, but Sir Percy walked with him. “You should have listened to me, you know,” Sir Percy said, matching Chauvelin’s every step even as he began walking faster. “Nobody wears black to a ball these days, unless they’re costumed as Death, I suppose. At least your cravat is a bit improved—if only you weren’t leaving England after a week, we’d make a fashionable gentleman of you yet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Asumi Rio, one of the actresses who played Chauvelin in the Takarazuka SP production, later played Death in Elisabeth...the idea of Chauvelin wearing that over-the-top costume [(see here)](https://pp.vk.me/c623924/v623924927/97ea/VvY64-qiFLY.jpg) was hilarious but it _is_ black!
> 
> The ~~Three Musketeers~~ GLORIOUS FOUR reference is just barely an anachronism; D'Artagnan's memoirs had been around for a while by 1792 and the first fictional version arrived in 1800 if my research is correct.


	3. Half Past Twelve Precisely

Chauvelin’s experience at Lord Grenville’s ball proceeded to get worse and worse after his initial encounter with Sir Percy. He tried everything short of outright telling the foppish baronet to go away—he could not risk creating a scene in a situation where he was already unwelcome—but Sir Percy ignored all his hints and smiled through all his insults, following him about as an eager puppy might follow someone holding a bone.

With Marguerite’s husband trailing after him in this way, Chauvelin could not meet with her to discover any information she might have, for that was absolutely certain to make a scene. Worse, he could not do any spying himself, for Sir Percy was so cursedly _visible_ in his present attire that everyone looked at him wherever he went, and therefore everyone also saw where Chauvelin was.

To make his mood darker, Sebastienne and Antoine were somehow actually managing to have a good time by this point. His pair of subordinates were both dancing: not with each other, of course, but they could brush hands as they passed off their partners which seemed to be enough to make them happy. Apparently they had only been unwelcome while Chauvelin was near them.

“Having any luck, Monsieur, uh...Shovelin?” Sir Percy asked around a mouthful of lemon tart as Chauvelin paused below the grand staircase, after circumnavigating the room yet again in hopes of losing his unwanted companion. Alas, even this valiant attempt had proved unsuccessful as Sir Percy had caught up with him again only a few seconds later. He had acquired a plateful of tarts from a waiter several minutes ago, which had the blessed effect of shutting him up for a while, but the pastries wouldn’t last much longer.

“With what?” Chauvelin asked, pushing the plate of tarts back as Percy attempted to offer him one. If Percy ate them all, perhaps he would be sick and have to go home: he didn’t look as if he had the strongest of stomachs. Probably he even fainted at the sight of blood, Chauvelin thought, and was again horrified at Marguerite’s fate being trapped with such a husband.

While he had not been able to speak with her yet, Marguerite seemed to have made some sort of progress, as he had seen her some minutes ago near Ffoulkes and Dewhurst, looking nigh to fainting. They had reacted with the utmost concern, of course: Marguerite knew exactly the sort of act needed to influence chivalrous young men like that. Unfortunately he had not been able to distinguish whether she had ended up with any results for her pains, as Sir Percy had then distracted him with attempts to rearrange his cravat.

“Catching the Scarlet Pimpernel, of course.”

It was lucky Chauvelin had not accepted the tart or he might have choked on it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Everyone says that’s why you’re here,” said Sir Percy. He did not seem to realise the consternation his last statement had caused, for he kept on speaking with inane equanimity. “I wrote a poem about the Scarlet Pimpernel once, you know. Would you like to hear it?”

“ _No_ ,” said Chauvelin, but it was already too late as Sir Percy assumed a recitative pose.

_“They seek him here, they seek him there,_

_Those Frenchies seek him everywhere._

_Is he in heaven? Is he in hell?_

_That demmed elusive Pimpernel?”_

As Sir Percy uttered this insult to all things literary, a small crowd of admirers gathered around him. With his shadow thus hopefully delayed for a little while, Chauvelin saw his chance. Ignoring all idea of propriety, he dashed out onto the dance floor, dodging whirling couples. “Pierrefonds, with me,” he snapped, seizing Sebastienne’s arm and pulling her away from her partner.

“What’s going on, Citizen Chauvelin?” Sebastienne asked, a little breathless from the dancing, as Chauvelin manoeuvred her behind a few potted plants.

“Do you see that man?” Chauvelin pointed out Sir Percy, who was happily repeating that horrid doggerel verse to an expanding group of listeners.

“Yes.”

“There is a fountain on the terrace. If you can make him fall into that fountain, I will give you fifty francs.”

Sebastienne’s eyebrows went up at the prospect of increasing her income. “You want him to fall into the fountain and...what, drown?”

Oh, but that was tempting—still, there was a time and place for all things. “No, just fall in. Then his clothes will be ruined and he’ll have to go home.”

Sebastienne shrugged and began fishing in the pockets of her jacket. “Whatever you want—just get your money ready.” She ambled off back out into the ballroom, waving at Antoine to join her.

Chauvelin did not waste time watching to see how they carried out his orders. With Sir Percy distracted and soon to be doused, he finally had a chance to speak with Marguerite.

* * *

It did not take Chauvelin long to find Marguerite. She was waiting in a secluded area of the balcony that overlooked the ballroom. He hoped she hadn’t been watching his abuse at the hands of Sir Percy for the past hour, but if she had at least she was courteous enough (or depressed enough, considering how Chauvelin had been treating her) not to show any amusement.

Before approaching Marguerite, Chauvelin looked out over the ballroom to make sure Sir Percy wasn’t following him again—he had no desire to fight a duel because some brainless fop mistook blackmail for romance. To his great relief Sir Percy had left the staircase and was now dancing with Suzanne de Tournay. Sebastienne was not in sight, but the terrace doors were open and some of the couples were drifting very close to them.

Satisfied that there was no risk from that quarter at the moment, Chauvelin walked over to where Marguerite was leaning on the balcony railing. “Do you have something for me, milady?” he asked, noting that her hands were empty except for her fan.

“Ffoulkes had a note,” Marguerite said softly. “I only had a few seconds to look at it before he burned it.”

“And what did it say?”

“It said: _At half-past twelve I will be in the garden next to the library where supper was served._ There...there was a sketch of a pimpernel in the corner.”

“Thank you, Lady Blakeney. You have done the Revolutionary government a great service.” Or rather, she would have if she had relayed her information to someone more loyal than Chauvelin. Chauvelin only wanted to avoid the Scarlet Pimpernel, not to capture him.

“The letter…?” Marguerite asked as Chauvelin started to turn away.

“Watch for the post to-morrow,” Chauvelin replied. “If your information bears fruit, then there will be—”

A mighty splash and furore from the terrace interrupted Chauvelin’s speech. “Oh, Sir Percy!” Suzanne’s shriek could be heard above the tumult.

“Your husband appears to have come to some mishap,” Chauvelin said, trying valiantly not to smile in the presence of Marguerite and ruin her current impression of him. “Perhaps you should see to him?”

Marguerite sighed in frustration but hurried down one of the staircases to approach the terrace. Chauvelin followed more discreetly: while he could not risk being connected to the incident he dearly wanted to see the horrid fop’s comeuppance.

The results of Sebastienne’s work, Chauvelin concluded as Sir Percy squelched back into the ballroom, were very good. Percy’s once immaculately-starched cravat was a limp, grimy wreck, the bow was missing (Chauvelin decided to see if he could find it in the fountain later, for a trophy), there was some sort of aquatic plant twined in his hair, and that hideous coat sagged about him in soggy folds.

“Why don’t we both go home, Percy?” Marguerite was saying, appearing to all the company like the perfect picture of a concerned wife.

“Oh no, m’dear!” Sir Percy patted Marguerite’s cheek damply, causing her affectionate expression to slip a bit. “You stay and have your fun. I’ll be quite all right.”

Chauvelin held his breath, ducking back behind a column until Sir Percy had trudged soddenly all the way up the grand staircase and out of the building. It was half-past ten. Chauvelin would have two peaceful, Percy-less hours to prepare for the time appointed by the Scarlet Pimpernel.

“Satisfied, Citizen Chauvelin?” Sebastienne asked, appearing from behind another column near by.

“Exceptionally so,” Chauvelin replied. “However did you do it?” Sebastienne made some vague gestures and mumbled something about a crossbow. She was never eager to share her ‘trade secrets,’ so Chauvelin knew he wouldn’t get any more information than that—if it had even been true, which was unlikely. “Oh, never mind. Fifty francs?” he said, reaching into his coat.

“Seventy-five.”

“What!”

“There’s a surcharge for frogs.”

At another time, Chauvelin would have complained, but seeing that insufferable nincompoop humiliated had put him in an expansive mood and he handed over the money with no regrets.

* * *

The next hours passed by with interminable slowness for Chauvelin. As soon as Percy had been driven off he spent several minutes examining the garden where the Pimpernel was to meet his associates, but found nothing out of the ordinary.

Chauvelin did not wish to arouse suspicion by lurking in the garden for too long before the appointed time, so he had to find other ways to occupy himself. Sebastienne and Antoine soon returned to the dance floor, and Chauvelin stood by the staircase to watch them, wondering how they were managing to be welcome where he was not. Still, after spending the whole evening trying in vain to dodge the untiringly irritating Sir Percy, he was not sorry that all the other guests were happy enough to leave him alone and give him a chance to relax.

Thus, he was both surprised and a little annoyed when Sebastienne suddenly swept by and thrust her partner into his arms with a brisk “Lady Weatherby, Citizen Chauvelin,” then darted back onto the dance floor to pair up with another lady.

“My apologies,” said Lady Weatherby, seeing Chauvelin’s shock at the abrupt introduction. “I do hope you will forgive your guard—we are short of gentlemen now that Sir Percy’s gone, and he said he would find a replacement...do you mind?”

It was only a quarter till twelve, so Chauvelin decided that if Lady Weatherby did not mind then he wouldn’t either. Then at least he wouldn’t be completely shown up by his subordinates. “At your service,” he said politely, offering his hand.

While it had been years since Chauvelin last danced, he managed not to make a bad showing of himself and Lady Weatherby proved to be quite a pleasant partner. He was fairly sure that she did not exactly approve of him, but she was gracious enough that her true opinion was irrelevant if they were merely dancing.

He wondered what they looked like to the spectators. If his little Fleurette could see this she would be ordering flowers for a wedding by the next day. Chauvelin loved his daughter dearly, of course, but she was obsessed with the notion that her father ‘needed someone,’ to the point that he could barely walk past an unmarried woman under the age of fifty without her hearing wedding bells. At least she was not in Paris, or she would certainly be trying her hardest to set him up with any and all of the noble ladies Chauvelin rescued.

The song ended sooner than Chauvelin expected, and as all the couples exchanged partners he suddenly realised that he was now holding Marguerite’s white-gloved hand.

“You!” she gasped, jerking her hand out of his grip. “How can you—after what you’ve done?”

“Hush, Milady,” Chauvelin murmured. “if you make a scene the Pimpernel might be frightened off, and then what would become of Armand?”

Marguerite glared at him but returned her hand, smiling through gritted teeth as the next dance began. It was now midnight.

Chauvelin’s incredibly awkward dance with Marguerite ended at ten after twelve, and Chauvelin exited the dance floor with a last bow to Marguerite, who stiffly refused to return the gesture with so much as a nod.

Other than Marguerite, no one paid any attention as Chauvelin walked out onto the terrace that led to the gardens of Lord Grenville’s mansion. As he walked past the fountain that had proven Sir Percy’s undoing, Chauvelin caught a glimpse of scarlet—the bow that had been on Sir Percy’s cravat was floating on the water next to some lilies. Chauvelin fished it out with two fingers (he was wary of extended contact with anything Percy had touched) and laid it on the side of the fountain to dry out. After the ball was over he could take it with him as a souvenir of the day he discovered the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.

By the time he reached the garden it was, according to the clock he could see through an open window, fifteen minutes after twelve. Chauvelin settled into a shadowed nook next to a dense rosebush and waited for the Scarlet Pimpernel to turn up.

At just half past twelve, Chauvelin heard footsteps approaching the garden. Wanting to surprise whoever was about to appear, Chauvelin stepped out into the open—then stopped dead, his jaw dropping in shock and horror.

“Oh, Monsieur Shawberton!” exclaimed Sir Percy, pouncing on him delightedly. “Isn’t it lucky I had a change of clothes? I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to see you again all evening and that would have been _dreadfully_ rude of me. And it was demmed kind of you to rescue my little ribbon,” he added, waving the still-damp bow in front of Chauvelin’s frozen face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The note Marguerite sneaks a look at in this chapter is an amalgamation of those from all Pimpernel adaptations I could fit in (although I did use 'garden' instead of 'footbridge').  
> And of course no musical-based ball scene can ever be complete without Percy wearing [this epic monstrosity.](https://pp.vk.me/c418128/v418128382/33b1/cH4bJIOYsYg.jpg)


	4. The Scarlet Pimpernel

“What...what are you doing here?” Chauvelin gasped once he had overcome (with great effort) his initial urges to strangle the wretched fop and get Pierrefonds to hide the body. No matter how much the immediate results would be gratifying, it would be impossible to cover up for long and he could not afford to be arrested in England.

“That’s a secret,” said Sir Percy blithely, stepping into the light and giving a little twirl. “What do you think?”

Chauvelin had not thought there could possibly be anything worse than what Sir Percy had been wearing during his first appearance at the ball, but apparently he had been incorrect.

Sir Percy’s new coat was blazing scarlet, and the gold embroidery covering it held dozens of tiny mirrors that caught the light shining into the garden from the ballroom’s open windows—Chauvelin had to hold a hand in front of his eyes to avoid being blinded. His current cravat was a gigantic gold construction, held in place with a gaudy jeweled pin.

By this point, so close to having his plans come to fruition, Chauvelin was done being civil. Rather than answer Sir Percy’s question—in any case, there were no suitable words for Chauvelin’s utter disgust towards the ensemble—he seized him by the lapels. “Why. Are. You. _Here?”_ Chauvelin growled furiously, giving him a little shake with each word.

Sir Percy blinked in surprise but somehow was still not offended at Chauvelin’s treatment of him. “Lud, man, have a care,” he said in a mildly chiding tone as he took a step back and straightened his coat. “Can’t risk crimping my cravat, you see. Odd’s fish, I spent nearly two hours trying to tame the demmed thing.”

“Why are you here?” Chauvelin repeated flatly, clenching his hands behind his back to prevent himself from succumbing to his baser urges.

“Oh yes. Well, if you must know—” Sir Percy leaned in to whisper conspiratorially “—there’s a rumour floating about that the Pimpernel’s going to show up here, so I thought I’d see if I could have a look. Maybe tell him to lay off a bit, what? Really, the demmed fellow is making the rest of us chaps look quite bad to the ladies with all these hero-stories.”

Maybe, just maybe, the brainless nincompoop could be useful to Chauvelin, just this once. “And did you see anyone?” he demanded.

“Nary a shadow,” stated Sir Percy with a shrug. “Why, you’re the first...person…here...” Chauvelin took a step back as Sir Percy leaned in close again, staring at him through his quizzing-glass with sudden intensity. “I have it!” Sir Percy cried, with an excited gesture that made Chauvelin wince as one of the mirrors on Percy’s coat reflected a ray of light directly into his eye. “ _You_ must be the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

“What.” Sir Percy was closer to the mark than he thought (if the man was actually capable of thinking—Chauvelin had severe doubts on that score), but that didn’t make the idea any less ridiculous.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“No!”

Sir Percy frowned momentarily, then brightened again. “See, that’s exactly what you’d say if you were the Scarlet Pimpernel!” He clasped his hands pleadingly. “Come, man, won’t you make it just a little easier on us poor British gentlemen?”

“Stop this absurdity!” Chauvelin snapped, dodging past Percy to flee the garden. Marguerite had done her best only for her husband to ruin everything—if the real Pimpernel had been anywhere near the garden, Percy’s arrival would have startled him off, for the man was practically glowing with those cursed mirrors.

“But at least tell me about your adventures!” Sir Percy begged, bounding after Chauvelin and catching him by his sash.

Sir Percy was stronger than he appeared, but after a vicious tug-of-war (to which Chauvelin prayed there had been no spectators) Chauvelin wrenched the sash away and practically ran back into the ballroom.

“Pierrefonds! Dufour! We’re leaving!” he ordered as he stalked furiously through the ballroom to the grand staircase.

Blakeney, the miserable nitwit, had sent him back to square one, and if he could not find some means of rectifying the damage Chauvelin might very well lose his life to the man’s idiocy.

It was one of the most depressing thoughts Chauvelin had ever had.

* * *

“What’s the plan now, Citizen Chauvelin?” Antoine asked as the carriage bore them away from Lord Grenville’s mansion and back towards the townhouse Chauvelin had rented in London.

Chauvelin sighed. “I’ll send that letter back to Marguerite by the morning post. Then, if there’s nothing to be found in those maps, it will be back to The Fisherman’s Rest for you two...no, wait. I forgot I still owe Marguerite a bigger favour than that. Pierrefonds?”

Sebastienne stifled a sneeze: her cold was mostly better but being out in the cool air of the night couldn’t have helped her recovery. “Yes?”

“The way I see it, Marguerite would be much happier without Sir Percy around. She could raise dogs or something: they’d be more loyal and probably cleverer besides.”

“Beg pardon, who is Sir Percy again?”

“The fop in the fountain,” Chauvelin explained, remembering that his subordinates had not been present for any of his prior encounters with Blakeney. Sebastienne nodded in recognition. “Do you think you could arrange for him to have some sort of more permanent accident, without it being traced back to us?”

“Oh, sure!” Sebastienne looked a bit too excited at this proposition, and Antoine began to look concerned. “What sort of accident? Do you want more than one at once? I packed all kinds of things I could use for—”

“We can discuss that once we get back,” Chauvelin replied before she could go into too much detail and traumatize her sweetheart. “More importantly, whatever we do we shall have to have an exorcism immediately afterwards or he is certain to haunt me.”

Chauvelin had said this in jest, but Sebastienne replied completely seriously. “Sorry, Citizen, you’ll have to get someone else for that. I know who you can ask back in France, though.”

“Nevermind that. I just can’t stand how the idiot keeps popping up all the time! Why, I was that close to being face-to-face with the Pimpernel in the garden there, but then that fool Blakeney—that fool—that—Blakeney— _sacre bleu.”_

“Citizen?”

Chauvelin was vaguely aware of Antoine and Sebastienne’s worried faces as they attempted to speak to him, but everything had suddenly gone very dim and he couldn’t distinguish what they were saying.

It was impossible! It _had_ to be impossible! Still, Blakeney had surprising strength for an idle dandy—remarkable clarity of gaze for an empty-headed fool—he had known where the Scarlet Pimpernel was going to appear—but it was impossible!

If it were true—

“Citizen Chauvelin!”

Chauvelin gasped, coughing as something burned his nose and brought him back to full alertness. Sebastienne was holding a small vial of smelling salts. “Citizen Chauvelin, are you all right?”

“No. No, no, no. _Parbleu_ , no! That— _that ghastly fop!”_ Chauvelin wailed, not caring how undignified he looked as he buried his face in his hands. “I thought I would never have to see him again, but now—”

“Citizen Chauvelin, what is wrong?” Antoine pressed, nearly frantic at his superior’s odd behavior.

“He’s the Pimpernel. _Sir Percy Blakeney is the Scarlet Pimpernel!_ ”

“...does that mean we’re cancelling the accident, then?”

Chauvelin groaned. “Yes, Pierrefonds, I’m afraid so. We’ll go back to France and...stay out of his way as best we can.”

* * *

Upon their return to the townhouse, Chauvelin was too exhausted by the events of the evening and the traumatising realisation that had come as its climax to do more than remove his coat and shoes before collapsing into bed.

When he awoke, he set Sebastienne and Antoine to packing before taking a walk into town in order to post Armand’s letter back to Marguerite—she had done everything he asked, after all, and he had indeed discovered the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel, unwelcome as the revelation had been.

Now that Chauvelin knew who the Pimpernel was it would now be possible to keep track of his movements in and out of England and thus prevent their respective aristo-rescuing plans from overlapping. Indeed, considering how little Chauvelin wanted to see Blakeney again, he would put forth every effort to keep that from happening. As he walked through the streets he couldn’t keep himself from looking over his shoulder now and again to check that he wasn’t being followed by the insufferable fop.

A post-office was found quickly enough, and the letter duly sent after only slight confusion over the demented system that was English currency. Chauvelin opened the door to leave and immediately slammed it shut again, ignoring the clerk’s confused stares as he backed out of sight of the window.

There was a haberdashery across the street. This would not, ordinarily, have affected Chauvelin’s movements in the slightest, but this particular haberdashery happened to have Sir Percy Blakeney standing in its doorway, attended by his two most devoted followers (in aristo-rescuing as well as in fashion), Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and Lord Antony Dewhurst.

Sir Percy was carrying a paper-wrapped parcel of the right shape to hold a pile of folded cravats, and Lord Antony had a large hat-box tucked under one arm. Whatever Sir Andrew had purchased, it was small enough for him to slip it into a pocket of his ridiculous coat.

Chauvelin folded his arms and waited for them to leave. Unfortunately, they had no idea someone was waiting on them and therefore kept standing about and chatting on the steps of the haberdashery.

“Do you need something else, Monsieur?” the clerk asked after a few minutes.

“No,” said Chauvelin curtly. “And it’s _Citizen_ , nowadays.”

During this interval, the trio of dandies had progressed one step down the stairs in front of the haberdashery. Chauvelin leaned against the wall and sighed, tapping his foot impatiently.

“Would you like to buy some stamps, Mon—Citizen?” the clerk tried again.

Had he been hiding anywhere but an English shop, Chauvelin would have bought something so as not to appear suspicious but he did not want to repeat the effort of sorting out how their money worked right now. “No.”

Finally, after what seemed to have been an interminable wait, Sir Percy and his friends made it all the way down the steps and began strolling up the street. Once they were out of sight, Chauvelin crept out of the post-office and headed in the opposite direction.

When he returned to the townhouse—after taking a very long and circuitous route in order to avoid any possibility of running into Sir Percy again—Sebastienne and Antoine had already finished packing, so there was nothing to do but set out for Dover and their boat back to France.

* * *

Two days later, Chauvelin and his two lieutenants finally arrived back at the Anti-SP Division. While it was somewhat of a relief to be back where he didn’t have to deal with Sir Percy any more—at least not directly as long as he was careful—it would have been nice to have a slightly longer break from working against the Revolution in the very seat of its power. He did not enjoy having the constant threat of discovery by the Committee of Public Safety hanging over his head.

No sooner had he entered the gate of the erstwhile inn that served as the Anti-SP Division’s headquarters than Desgas was at his side. The older man said nothing, but Chauvelin recognised the pensive expression on his face. “What’s wrong?” Chauvelin asked.

“One of the gate guards has become a little too perceptive,” Desgas explained. “While you were gone he caught the Vicomtesse de Loures on her way out of the city—I was able to take over the arrest and get her out through a different gate, but if it happens again…”

Chauvelin nodded. One arrested aristo mysteriously failing to end up in prison was an anomaly, but not enough to attract undue attention from the Committee of Public Safety. Two, however, and they might all be finished. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Sergeant Bibot, at the West Gate.”

“We’ll settle him by the end of the week,” Chauvelin promised. “Until then, put a stop to any plans for moving people out of the city.”

While he made this statement confidently, Chauvelin soon discovered that the situation they were in would be more complex to resolve than he had originally expected. Desgas was an efficient worker, extricating captured aristos from their prisons almost every day, and without a way to get them out of Paris quickly the risk of keeping them became ever greater.

Even now they had three refugees—a lady-in-waiting to a guillotined Princesse, a Chevalier, and his wife the Chevaleresse—hidden in the cellar of the inn. Besides that, Desgas had made arrangements to slip a Comte and his young son from a prisoner transport arriving in Paris the next day.

Chauvelin would have to make it possible to resume sending people out of Paris soon or they would be discovered merely from the increase in consumption at the Anti-SP Division. The Committee of Public Safety complained bitterly at the pettiest expenses incurred by Chauvelin’s activities (even the ones they actually knew about and endorsed), and they would be certain to notice if his food expenditures went up.

Thus, it was imperative to resolve this issue as soon as possible—but if he rushed into action with an ill-prepared plan, that could be just as dangerous.

* * *

Two days later, Chauvelin had put together—and was now in the process of carrying out—what he considered a satisfactory plan for disposing of the overly-competent Sergeant Bibot. Currently, Chauvelin was mounted up out of view of the gate Bibot supervised, accompanied by Sebastienne and two other riders in Republican uniforms. Antoine was perched on the roof of the building they were hiding behind, relaying descriptions of the carts and travellers passing through the gate.

“Ours is next,” he reported finally. “Looks good so far.”

_It had better,_ Chauvelin thought, remembering how much time and effort had been spent on preparing disguises for the cart’s passengers and gathering suitably innocuous contents for the cart itself. Justine Desgas had worked almost a full night on the garments, making sure they were distressed and grimy enough to satisfy the most demanding Republican eye. And even if they did not, Chauvelin had arranged things so that everyone would make it safely through the gate either way.

“Are they through yet?” Chauvelin asked.

“Bibot is looking at their papers,” Antoine called back. “He looks suspicious...one of his men just checked the cart. Now Bibot’s taking a look...and...he just gave their papers back. They’re headed through the gate now.”

“Good work,” Chauvelin said. “Now get down from there before someone sees you.”

His stallion sensed the tension in the little group, but Chauvelin held him in check until he had counted off a full minute after the cart passed through the gate.

“Now!” he ordered, spurring the horse into a gallop towards the gate, followed by the other three riders.

Sergeant Bibot sprang to attention as Chauvelin’s band swept down on his position. Reining his horse in, Chauvelin dismounted and began shouting. “Did a cart pass through here just now, carrying two women and a little boy?” he demanded.

“Yes, Citizen, but their papers were all—”

“You bungling fool!” Chauvelin snarled. “Incompetent oaf!” He just barely managed to stop himself calling the bewildered sergeant a ‘foppish nincompoop’. It didn’t compare to saying it to Blakeney’s face, of course, but shouting at something made him feel at least a little better. “Those were three aristos destined to meet Madame Guillotine tomorrow, you wretched bungler! Perhaps you should go in their stead, hmm?” Had Bibot actually stopped the cart, the tirade would have been slightly different, accusing him of ruining a plan to entrap the Scarlet Pimpernel with a false group of escapees.

Now realising the situation he was in, Bibot paled. “But Citizen, I assure you—” he began to protest, but Chauvelin cut him off.

“Pierrefonds, put him under arrest,” he ordered Sebastienne as he remounted his horse. “You two, with me. They’ve a start, but we can still catch them!”

Following Chauvelin through the gate, the Chevalier Belrose and the Comte de Giroux raced to rejoin their family members, who had already made it through the gate on the cart. _Not a bad day’s work, if I do say so myself,_ Chauvelin thought. _Five people out of Paris and one guard out of our way—even if he does talk his way out of prison Bibot will never be trusted with a gate again._  

 


	5. The Rue des Florentines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something goes wrong for the Anti-SP Division that _isn't_ the Scarlet Pimpernel's fault for once. This doesn't make Chauvelin any less annoyed about the whole situation.

After the Bibot affair, things mostly went back to normal in the Anti-SP Division. Of course, what passed for normal in the Anti-SP Division would be considered the most dire of circumstances by any sane observer, but as they were not currently under the threat of immediately being discovered and guillotined it was quite an improvement over the previous week.

Due to the maps and papers Sebastienne and Antoine had stolen during their foray to The Fisherman’s Rest, Chauvelin had some idea of where the Pimpernel would be active over the next few weeks, and therefore took pains to ensure that none of their respective aristo-rescuing schemes would overlap. He also took steps to limit the number of people hidden in the Anti-SP Division’s headquarters at any one time: they could not afford to perform large-scale escapes at all frequently, as they were too easily noticed. Blakeney might have a ready escape route across the water where pursuers could not reach him, but Chauvelin’s band was not so lucky.

Despite how dangerous their work was, it had quickly become routine for all of them. Desgas bribed guards and forged signatures to open the cells of condemned aristos; Madame Desgas used theatrical disguises to turn the escapees into presentably bedraggled citizens; Sebastienne and Antoine smuggled them out of the city; and Chauvelin blamed everything on that cursed Englishman, the Scarlet Pimpernel.

In any routine, however, there were irregularities, and the Anti-SP Division encountered another before long.

Sebastienne had been dispatched to the Committee of Public Safety that morning with a pile of almost completely false (but very commendable) reports from Chauvelin. She rode back at a frantic gallop that had Chauvelin about ready to begin preparations to flee the country as soon as she dismounted in the courtyard of the inn.

“Citizen Chauvelin, we have a problem!” she shouted, sprinting up the stairs to Chauvelin’s office two at a time.

Chauvelin hurried out to meet her on the landing. “What’s going on?” he demanded.

“Next street over—Committee’s informer was attacked yesterday—guards will be patrolling all the next fortnight,” Sebastienne reported breathlessly. “I, uh, borrowed a copy of the report,” she added after she had recovered a little, reaching into her coat and handing Chauvelin a crumpled document.

“Thank you,” Chauvelin said, taking the papers. “Now go calm Antoine down, I’m sure he’s panicking by now.” Sebastienne saluted briskly before dashing back down the stairs, calling for Antoine.

Chauvelin returned to his office to read over the report she had acquired. Even upon careful examination it did not seem to be in any way related to his actions: it was just another of the coincidental overlaps that were happening all too often lately. Just as Sebastienne had said, an informer in the pay of the Committee of Public Safety had been assaulted in the street parallel to the Rue des Florentines. In response to this attack (which Chauvelin had no doubt was entirely deserved, although he deplored the attacker’s choice of location), the Committee had ordered that all the streets in the vicinity be patrolled for the next two weeks, and any suspicious persons immediately arrested.

Faced with this difficulty, Chauvelin called an emergency meeting that afternoon. The four official members of the Anti-SP Division—Chauvelin himself, Desgas, Sebastienne and Antoine—gathered in the attic of the inn, finding whatever places to sit they could among the heaps of disguises piled over chests full of aristos’ abandoned valuables.

“...and that’s the situation we’re in currently,” Chauvelin explained. “Of course, we could just cease our undercover operations until the patrols stop, but I would hate for it to come to that considering how badly our services are needed.”

“Couldn’t we use the tunnel until they go away?” Antoine asked.

Chauvelin shook his head firmly. “No, the tunnel is to be our last ditch in case of an emergency. We can’t afford to expose it now.”

“If they’re looking for ‘suspicious persons,’ why don’t we just give them one?” Desgas suggested. “We could have young St. Cyr draw them off; it’s unlikely his connection to us could be traced.”

“It’s true that his connection to us couldn’t be traced, but his connection to his family _could_ , which would be just as bad,” Chauvelin pointed out. It was vital to the safety of everyone involved in Chauvelin’s schemes that the St. Cyrs remain convincingly ‘dead’. “Besides, it would take a good five days at least to get him back here from the coast. Distracting the guards could be effective, though: that way we would be able to control their movements somewhat. Who could we use, though…”

A sharp sneeze from Antoine drew Chauvelin’s attention to the nook where he and Sebastienne were sitting. Sebastienne had been absently playing with the costumes rather than enter into the discussion, and Antoine’s sneeze had been caused by her waving a plumed hat in his face.

“Perfect,” Chauvelin declared.

“You think so?” Sebastienne deposited the hat on Antoine’s head at a rakish angle and leaned back to inspect the results. “I mean, it’s definitely a very nice hat, but—”

“No, you.”

“Well, thanks very much, Citizen, but I’m a bit taken…”

“Have you been paying attention at all to this meeting?” Chauvelin sighed. Sebastienne blinked slowly, which Chauvelin took as a no. He couldn’t really blame her, either, considering her earlier exertion. “In any case,” he continued, “congratulations: you are now our decoy aristo.”

“Do I get paid extra?”

“Since it’s probably going to be horrifyingly dangerous, yes,” Chauvelin said.

Sebastienne smiled. “Sounds fine. When do I start?”

“Sebastienne, no!” Antoine protested, the worried expression on his face looking very out of place under the gaudy hat. “It’s not safe!”

“Is anything fun ever safe?” Sebastienne retorted, batting at one of the plumes.

“Croquet. Croquet is very safe.”

* * *

The first foray of the ‘decoy aristo’ scheme came three days later, when it was necessary to smuggle a few escaped aristos into the Anti-SP Division’s headquarters. The original plan had been to send them directly to the coast, but St. Cyr (who usually handled the coastal end of things, as it was far less likely that he would be recognised in a fishing village than in Paris) had sent word that their boat had been damaged in a collision and repairs would not be completed until the end of the week. The refugees had to be kept somewhere until then, so Sebastienne was appointed to draw off the attention of the patrolling guards and keep them from noticing the odd goings-on in the Rue des Florentines.

Chauvelin, Sebastienne and Antoine convened in Madame Desgas’ costume house early in the day, so that there would be plenty of time between their departure from the Anti-SP Division and the appearance of the distraction.

Madame Desgas was doing an admirable job of changing Sebastienne from a soldier into a highly noticeable—and almost completely unrecognisable—aristocrat. She was still in male guise, since running in skirts would be too risky in this situation, but her tan had been lessened with makeup and a long blond wig covered her auburn hair. For her clothes, Madame Desgas had unearthed a gold-embroidered costume from a Baroque romance.

“Take that pistol out, dear,” Madame Desgas scolded as she adjusted the waistcoat, giving Sebastienne’s hand a gentle swat when she tried to fit the weapon into the waistband of her breeches.

“But—”

“You have two already, one more and it simply will not fasten! Antoine, hold this measuring tape for me, I shall have to take up the shoulders...Citizen Chauvelin, the pins. They’re on the desk.”

While Chauvelin was in charge of all the planning of the escape schemes, Madame Desgas was the undisputed ruler of all things backstage, so he obeyed her orders without protest.

“You’re definitely going to be very distracting,” he observed once the waistcoat had been adjusted to Madame Desgas’ satisfaction. Sebastienne tried on the bright gold coat as Madame Desgas went searching for lace to put in the cuffs..

“Yes, I think the only way I could be more noticeable is if you set me on fire,” Sebastienne said with a laugh.

Antoine did not look amused. “But what if they spot you?” he fretted, twisting the measuring tape he held nervously.

“Well, that’s the point of this whole thing, _mon cheri._ ”

“But they might shoot at you!”

“If they do I can shoot back at them at least twice, and after than I have a knife, a garrotte, and—” she rummaged in the pocket of the waistcoat “—some caltrops. And Madame promised she would find me a sword, so I’ll be fine.”

After this explanation Antoine looked more resigned than convinced, but he did not protest any further.

A few moments later, Madame Desgas bustled back with an armful of shining lace and a sheathed sword laid over the pile. “I knew there was a sword that went with that costume!” she declared proudly. “And this gilded lace is just perfect. Antoine, hold this while I fix her cuffs.”

Antoine obediently took the sword, looking at it with some distaste as he gripped it gingerly. Chauvelin could understand his concern—were he still married, or still seeing Marguerite, he would certainly be upset at being required to watch his ladylove rushing into such danger—but in an operation like this they each had to take risks.

“ _Voila_!” Madame Desgas announced finally, stepping back and motioning Sebastienne to turn around, displaying her full costume. “You couldn’t miss her in a pitch-black cave.”

“Do you have to say it that way?” Antoine moaned softly, but received no reply.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, Madame,” Chauvelin said. “How does it look when you walk, Pierrefonds?” He frowned as she strode across the room. “You walk like a soldier—we can’t have anyone thinking you’re in disguise. Think of, say, the last ball you went to before the Revolution.”

Sebastienne’s temporarily alabaster brow wrinkled in concentration. “That would have been...ah! The bakers’ guild dance, I think—I went with Antoine. Or maybe it was the harvest festival?”

“I thought you said you were an aristo,” Chauvelin said.

“And I am, but we lived way out in the countryside and we didn’t have any money, so there weren’t exactly a lot of balls for me to go to,” Sebastienne replied. “Is this any better?”

Her walk this time was less soldierly, but blandly devoid of aristocratic refinement. “A bit,” Chauvelin stated. “You could stand to be a little more—” he cringed at the word he was about to use “—foppish.”

Sebastienne’s face lit up with understanding. “Oh! You mean like Sir Percy!”

“ _Mais non!_ ” Chauvelin protested in horror, but it was too late. Sebastienne pranced about the room in an admirable imitation of London’s favourite dandy, the gleaming lace in her cuffs fluttering with every step. Chauvelin turned around and put a hand over his eyes. “ _Sacre bleu,_ I can’t watch this,” he moaned.

“Does that mean it was convincing, Antoine?” Chauvelin heard Sebastienne whisper.

“I guess so.”

“Have you stopped yet?” Chauvelin asked.

“Yes, Citizen.”

Chauvelin turned around and breathed a sigh of relief to see Sebastienne standing at attention. “That was...exceptionally realistic,” he said finally. “Please never do it in front of me again.”

“Understood.”

“You know what you need to do tonight?” Chauvelin asked.

Sebastienne nodded, rustling her wig’s golden curls. “I wait until it gets dark, then I come back to the Rue des Florentines from the north and make sure all the guards chase me so that you can get the aristos in from the south.”

“And you are very, very careful,” Antoine interjected.

“Sure, that too.”

“Excellent,” Chauvelin said. “We’ll see you later tonight then. Come along, Antoine.” Now that he was satisfied their decoy would be effective, there were other arrangements they had to make before going into action.

* * *

Antoine was of little help over the next few hours, as he spent more time fretting over Sebastienne than heeding Chauvelin’s orders, but well before it was dark they had done everything necessary to make sure they were ready for Sebastienne to open the way into the Rue des Florentines.

Chauvelin, Antoine, and the deposed noble family they were escorting waited in an abandoned flat just outside the perimeter of the area being patrolled. From the parlour of the flat, Chauvelin watched the movements of the guards in the nearby streets while Antoine stayed in the bedroom with the fugitives. In case the building were searched, Chauvelin had planted a few pieces of ‘evidence’ in the dusty parlour so he could claim he was investigating an appearance of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Since anything to do with the Scarlet Pimpernel was widely known to be Chauvelin’s territory that should be enough to allay any suspicions and prevent further searching of the flat.

The patrolling guards were being very thorough, looking into every shadowed corner, peering through broken windows, and trying doors of abandoned buildings, of which there were many in and around the Rue des Florentines. The few remaining residents looked out nervously through drawn curtains as the guards marched through.

As the light grew dimmer Chauvelin found it more difficult to watch the movements of the guards. Tonight was only a crescent moon, and there were no streetlamps in this area—with the inhabitants nearly all gone the lamplighters had stopped bothering, and Chauvelin wasn’t about to do anything to make his operations easier to discover.

Despite the lack of light, it was impossible not to see Sebastienne when she finally stepped out of an alley to make her appearance on the scene. What illumination there was gleamed and radiated back from her gold brocaded coat and her shining lace, and the bright blond wig practically glowed even in the dimness of the night.

She looked for all the world like the hero of an old romantic ballad, and the guards stopped briefly, as if confused whether she was human or only an apparition.

When she threw a rock at one of the guards and shouted a few insults (Chauvelin could not hear them from his vantage point) they got over their bewilderment and sprinted after her as she dashed off.

Once Sebastienne had retreated past the end of the Rue des Florentines, Chauvelin turned and opened the door of the bedroom. “Now’s our chance. Hurry!”

“Is Sebastienne all right?” Antoine asked as he and Chauvelin led the aristos quickly down the stairs leading out of the flat.

“Not now, Dufour,” Chauvelin ordered curtly, eyeing the distance to the inn. It was less than a hundred metres, so they should have plenty of time to make it even if the guards tired of playing tag with Sebastienne and headed back in that direction. Still, they couldn’t afford to attract any more attention to themselves with conversation.

“But—” Antoine began, but Chauvelin silenced him with a look.

Motioning for the others to follow, Chauvelin let them at a brisk jog towards the gate of the inn. Every second he was half-expecting some more perceptive guard to step out of an ambush in one of the abandoned shops or little alleys, but they made it safely through the gate.

Desgas quickly shut and barred the door behind them before silently escorting the refugees to the cellar rooms where they would stay until the boat was repaired and they could cross the Channel to England.

“Any trouble here?” Chauvelin asked once Desgas returned.

“But what about Sebastienne?” Antoine pleaded.

“She’s fine,” Chauvelin informed him distantly. “Desgas?”

“One of the guards stopped by a couple hours before dark,” Desgas reported. “He asked if we had seen anything suspicious, and when I said ‘ _non_ ’ he left without asking anything else.”

“Good. Stick to that story if they ask anything about what happened tonight.”

“Are you sure Sebastienne is all right?” Antoine cut in. “She isn’t back yet—who knows what could have—”

“There’s nothing to worry—”

Chauvelin and Antoine were both interrupted when a large bundle was hurled over the wall of the inn, landing only a few feet away from where they were standing in the courtyard. Curious, Chauvelin stepped closer to the bundle and gave it a nudge with his foot. As the fabric wrapping the bundle loosened, a blond wig spilled out, shining brilliantly in the light of the courtyard’s torches.

“Sebastienne!” Antoine gasped (or nearly shrieked, depending on whom one heard the story related by later), falling to his knees next to the bundle.

“Hang on, give me a second,” panted a voice from the top of the wall. Antoine looked up in shock as Sebastienne jumped down from the wall, dressed again in her Republican uniform. “I changed in a hurry then came around from the other side,” she explained. “I figured we should keep the clothes, though. What’s wrong with Antoine?”

“Don’t ever do that again!” Antoine shouted, pouncing on Sebastienne in an embrace that sent them both tumbling to the cobblestones of the courtyard.

“But it was fun—”

“How can you have fun while I’m—”

Chauvelin coughed loudly and both of them scrambled to their feet, standing at attention as he turned to them. “While I am sure this is a worthy...discussion, I do think it would be better if it took place rather further away from the streets that are still being patrolled by guards looking for suspicious people,” he stated.

“Yes, Citizen,” Sebastienne and Antoine chorused.

“Also, you should make sure you’re ready for another mission in the morning. I’m setting out tomorrow to see how St. Cyr is faring and at least one of you will be coming with me.”

As Sebastienne and Antoine sprinted into the inn, Chauvelin picked up the bundle of clothes and the wig. “That went well,” Desgas said as they walked up the stairs to Chauvelin’s office.

“It did,” Chauvelin responded. “We’ll have a time keeping Antoine from disrupting everything next time, though.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastienne's appearance in disguise is based on [Oscar](https://pp.vk.me/c405425/v405425927/7c00/CY0p05PZVF4.jpg) from the Takarazuka musicals based on _The Rose of Versailles._
> 
> Also, I have been informed that I have to put up the chapter summaries I use for my tumblr posts, so I'm going to add those from now on and put them on the previous chapters when I have a chance.


	6. Noyers—and Calais

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Which:  
> Chauvelin Goes on a Road Trip--One of the St Cyrs Actually Gets to Do Something Besides be Dead--A Very Poor Choice of Lodging is Made

Chauvelin set out promptly the next morning on his way to visit Gerard de St. Cyr, with Antoine and Sebastienne in tow. Naught of import happened during the trip and they arrived in less than three days.

Noyers was a minute fishing village, settled in an out-of-the-way inlet away from any major water traffic. Thus, it was perfect for transporting refugees out of France and across the Channel to England. It was also a very poor village, and since the liberal bribes St. Cyr distributed to support his ‘smuggling’ business had practically tripled the village’s economy, nobody looked too hard at anything he was up to.

In fact, Gerard actually did run a functional smuggling operation in order to put himself even further above (or below) suspicion. The sale of these goods in England—cloth, lace and wine for the most part—served to fund escapes when Chauvelin could not stretch the budget allotted him by the Committee of Public Safety any further.

When they reached Noyers, Chauvelin gave Sebastienne and Antoine orders to make themselves scarce (in a village where a large percentage of the male population was now employed by a smuggling venture it wouldn’t do to have a pair of soldiers running about) before heading to the village’s single inn to meet with his confederate.

The girl—more of a young woman, of a truth, but as she looked only a few years older than his Fleurette Chauvelin refused to admit this fact—wiping down tables in the inn’s tavern room looked up as Chauvelin entered. “Anything I can do for you, Citizen?” she asked with a perfunctory little curtsey that bounced the few soft brown curls visible under her kerchief.

“Citizen Charron,” Chauvelin stated quietly, setting a gold piece on the table next to the girl’s dishcloth.

The gold piece quickly vanished into a pocket of her dingy apron. “This way,” she said, leading the way up the stairs and knocking on one of the doors. “Gerard,” she murmured, “someone to see you.”

The door to the room opened, revealing Gerard de St. Cyr. He was dressed respectably but not ostentatiously, in the manner of someone who had a lot of ill-gotten money but was trying to be discreet about it. While Chauvelin knew he could see perfectly well, he was wearing a pair of small silver-rimmed spectacles, the only effort he made to disguise his face.

“Thank you, Léonie,” Gerard said, giving the girl a pat on the shoulder that, at least from Chauvelin’s point of view, definitely represented more than businesslike appreciation. “I’m sure you’ve been busy all morning. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” he suggested, following up with another gold piece to get the point across.

Once he had watched Léonie scamper all the way down the stairs and out of the inn, Gerard ushered Chauvelin into his room and shut the door. “Will you sit down?” he asked, motioning to the rickety-looking table and chairs in the centre of the room. The only other furniture to speak of in the room was a well-worn bed and a wardrobe that had once been a good quality antique but was now merely shabby.

“How are things in Paris?” Gerard asked once they were sitting across from each other at the table, both leaning in a little so they would not have to talk too loud.

“Quite busy,” Chauvelin replied. “How are repairs on the _Achelois_?”

“She should be fully repaired by tomorrow: I hope this hasn’t caused you too much trouble.”

“Only a little,” Chauvelin said generously. “What happened, though?” If possible, he wanted to prevent such sudden emergencies from coming up again.

“We were on our way back from dropping off a nice batch of silver lace—not to mention the Marquise de Blanchet. It was at night, and there was a fog, but it’s so rare for any other boats to be in this area that I admit we were a bit lax in the watch.

“Anyway, we were most of the way across when a large English yacht appeared out of the fog and rammed us amidships. They steered away and were gone in less than a minute but we were left with a terrible gash in the starboard side of our boat. If it had been much worse we might not have made it back to Noyers at all.”

“Did you see the name of the boat?” Chauvelin asked.

“No, it was far too foggy for that.”

“How do you know it was English, then?”

Gerard leaned back in his chair, muttering a string of heated comments anent the quality of British seamanship and right of way in sea-lanes. “...and they were singing ‘Rule, Britannia!’” he finished. “ _Nom d’un nom,_ of course they rule the waves if they just run over everyone else’s ships!”

“Oh…” said Chauvelin. “I see.”

At the note of recognition in Chauvelin’s voice Gerard calmed down a little. “Do you think it was the Pimpernel?” he guessed perceptively.

Chauvelin pictured the elegant yacht belonging to Sir Percy Blakeney, and its insufferable owner gallivanting about its decks playing Admiral Howe. “It certainly sounds like something he would do,” he stated, wishing he could discard that mental image.

“Have you discovered who the Pimpernel is, then?” Gerard asked.

“Yes...as a matter of fact, I think that is something you ought to know,” Chauvelin replied; Gerard should be prepared for the fact that much of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel would be able to recognise him. Chauvelin leaned in closer across the table, and Gerard followed suit. “Sir Percy Blakeney is the Scarlet Pimpernel,” Chauvelin whispered.

Gerard’s jaw dropped. “Blake—that’s impossible!”

“Ssh,” Chauvelin hissed urgently. “I assure you it is the truth.”

“He was a good friend of my father,” Gerard murmured musingly. “I hadn’t the least idea why he would put up with such a sycophantic fool...is all that inanity a mask, then?”

“Sadly no,” Chauvelin replied. “In any case, take care. If they’ve been in this area once they might come again and, while I don’t know exactly who his allies are, you probably know many of them, and they would know you.”

“I’ll look out for them,” Gerard promised.

“Good.” Chauvelin pushed his chair back and stood up. “You’ll begin receiving new passengers once I return to Paris.”

“Are you heading straight back?” Gerard asked.

“No, I have to stop off and refresh some bribes in Calais. In any case, I’ll be going now. Send me word if the Pimpernel or any of his men are spotted around here.”

“I will. Here, I’ll let you out the back way,” Gerard said, opening the door and peeking out to ascertain whether the tavern room was empty before leading Chauvelin back down the stairs and through the kitchen. “Léonie’s beautiful at keeping secrets, but some of the sailors can’t be trusted so well,” he explained, pushing open a back door into an alley.

Chauvelin clasped his hand briefly before leaving to find Antoine and Sebastienne, hoping they had managed not to get into any trouble during the time he had left them unattended.

* * *

It turned out that Sebastienne and Antoine had set off on an unscheduled fishing trip and were very much frustrated at having to abandon their catch. After retrieving them, Chauvelin headed straight for Calais, arriving late the same day he left Noyers. In Calais, his errand was to leave a few bribes in dead drops where certain public officials could then retrieve them while both parties involved in the transaction retained their anonymity. When not operating in Paris, Chauvelin often ended up carrying out schemes in Calais, so it suited his purposes to have people in his pay there even while he was absent.

The first drop was located above the outer window-frame of a clock-tower near the city wall. It was for this reason that Chauvelin had decided to bring Sebastienne along. While she could and often did cause him all kinds of trouble while travelling, Chauvelin would put up with almost anything to avoid having to risk his neck on a windowsill forty feet above the ground.

Luckily it was quite dark by that point, so nobody noticed the odd activity around the clock-tower, but it was also beginning to drizzle and Sebastienne nearly slipped a couple times. To avoid having Antoine panic and bring the guard down on them, Chauvelin sent him off to the second drop (a much simpler matter, being a somewhat _passe_ hollow in a tree).

By the time Antoine and Sebastienne had completed their errands—despite the extreme difference in the relative distances, they finished at approximately the same time—it was properly raining _à la mode Anglaise_ , and only proceeded to get worse as they made their way to the last drop, a hidden nook in an old mausoleum overlooking the coast. This was no weather for riding, or for anything other than finding a roof to shelter under. If Chauvelin were in Calais under some ‘official’ pretext, he could have commandeered lodgings for himself and the others at the best hotel in town, but the trip to visit Gerard had been a spur-of-the-moment affair undertaken without notifying his superiors. He could not afford to call attention to his position outside Paris.

Fortunately Calais, like Noyers, was a hive of villainous smugglers and other such scum, and Chauvelin knew of several wretched little taverns and inns that, while very short on amenities, were equally short on any interest in their customers’ identities as long as their money was good.

Sebastienne was beginning to sneeze again, so Chauvelin led his little party to the closest inn he could think of: the _Chat Gris_. He did not make any effort to disguise himself; they would only be there until the rain stopped, after all. Even if someone noticed something amiss with a high official of the Committee of Public Safety giving his custom to such a miserable little hovel, he would be well out of Calais before anything could be done about it.

The exterior of the _Chat Gris_ was unprepossessing; the faded sign swung on hinges that shrieked with rust, the paint was peeling off the walls, and some missing window panes had been ineptly covered over with newspaper. Chauvelin remembered the interior of the dingy building as being even worse, and upon opening the door knew that his recollection had been correct. To his surprise, he noticed that it was marginally cleaner than it had been upon his last visit; there was even a tablecloth on the most steady of the few tables inside.

“Citizen Brogard!” Chauvelin called as he stepped across the threshold, pushing back his now-soaking hair. Antoine and Sebastienne followed close behind him.

The innkeeper of the _Chat Gris_ (little as it deserved to be called an inn) appeared from the kitchen a few moments later. Seeing Chauvelin’s tricolour sash he paled slightly, casting nervous glances about the room. Chauvelin did not fail to note that his gaze settled on the rickety stairs leading to the attic before he looked back to his guests.

“What do you want, Citizen?” grunted Brogard.

Chauvelin did not take offence: he knew Brogard fully subscribed to Republican ideals and thus was equally uncivil to all his guests. “Some hot food and a place to stay until the rain stops,” he said. As he handed over a few coins, he heard a soft rustling from the attic, but made no change of expression.

Brogard nodded, glancing nervously at the stairway again before turning away and ambling back into the kitchen. Chauvelin did not remember the food here as being good, and the sickly bubbling sounds he could hear did not make him at all hopeful that this had changed.

Not caring what guest of honour Brogard could have been expecting to make him be so extravagant, Chauvelin appropriated the table with the cloth. Sebastienne and Antoine joined him once they had found another pair of intact chairs.

“What now, Citizen Chau—Citizen?” Sebastienne asked, cutting off the name as Chauvelin looked at her warningly. While he was reasonably certain Brogard was not a risk, there was always the chance of other spies being present; a particularly real chance today, with whatever was going on in that attic. Perhaps he should have gone to the _Lion d’Or_ instead, but that would have been another half-mile to walk through the rain.

“As I said: we’re waiting until the rain stops,” Chauvelin reiterated.

“Ugh, how dull,” Sebastienne grumbled, leaning her elbows on the table and scuffing restlessly at the floor with her muddy boots.

“Would you like me to sing something?” Antoine suggested, immediately seizing upon the chance to impress his beloved.

“Might as well,” Sebastienne replied, looking up at him as he stood. Her tone was indifferent but her eyes were not.

“ _Mon ami me délaisse,_

_Ô gai, vive la rose,_ ” Antoine began.

With the singing covering any sound of his movements, Chauvelin decided it was about time he found out what was being hidden in the mysterious attic. For a moment, he felt some kind of premonition that perhaps he should let well enough alone in this instance, but he adamantly refused to let such superstitions bother him. Logically, he would be better off finding out if there was a spy lying in wait for him rather than letting the current state continue and running the risk of Sebastienne blurting something out before she could catch herself.

“ _Elle va-t-en voir une autre,_

_Ô gai, vive la rose._ ”

Gesturing to Antoine to keep singing as the second verse began, Chauvelin moved towards the stairs. Even with the sound of singing below, the aged wood creaked enough that he was certain it must be heard (if indeed there was someone in the attic, and he wasn’t just paranoid from too long a career in subterfuge).

“ _Qui est plus riche que moi,_

_Vive la rose et le lilas._ ”

Probably even if there was someone there it would only be a petty smuggler, and Chauvelin could let things go after permitting himself to be ‘bribed’ into silence. It was better to find out these sorts of things quickly, rather than sit around getting worked up over them.

Chauvelin shoved the door of the attic open. “Now then, what’s all thi—” he began in his best lazy-guard-chewing-out-voice, then froze.

Marguerite Blakeney was looking up at him, her big blue eyes wide and her tousled amber hair gleaming in the candlelight.

He really should have gone to the _Lion d’Or_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The _Achelois_ is named after a minor Greek moon goddess, to provide a counterpoint to Percy's _Day Dream_.  
>  2) ['Rule, Britannia!'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sgd9nYqVz2s) was set to music in 1740.  
> 3) Admiral Richard Howe (d. 1799) was a prominent commander in the American Revolution and also the French Revolutionary Wars, which commenced in 1793.  
> 4) [_'Vive la Rose'_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Obs7LtDrLgc) is usually sung from a female point of view but does come from this time period.  
>  5) The _Lion d'Or_ is the location of Percy and Chauvelin's showdown in the 1934 film.


	7. The Peacock and the Fox

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chauvelin attempts to have a dramatic showdown with the Scarlet Pimpernel. Unfortunately, since Sir Percy Blakeney is the Scarlet Pimpernel, things turn out rather differently for our hero.  
> (This chapter also features a guest appearance from Sir Percy Blakeney's clothes.)

Chauvelin had never imagined Marguerite, of all people, would turn up in France and especially not in a grubby little shack like this.

Perhaps she had come to the same conclusion he had regarding the identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel and saw it as her wifely duty to save her husband from what she perceived as Chauvelin’s villainous aims. If so, she was admirably dutiful, Chauvelin thought, remembering how unhappy she appeared to be with Percy.

The trouble was that no matter why she was there, Chauvelin now had to play to her expectations or risk exposing his real enterprise. And considering that he had crept up on her accompanied by the strains of a pretty little folk song, he was not off to a good start. He had mere seconds to regain control of the situation or her perception of him could change disastrously.

“Lady Blakeney,” he greeted her, making a very proper bow and stretching out a hand to help her up. “What a surprise to see you here.”

Chauvelin was not at all surprised—although he was slightly affronted—when she slapped his hand away and stood up on her own, her skirts rustling around her. “Don’t you dare be so familiar with me,” she snapped.

Chauvelin pulled his hand back and drew himself up to his full height: he was not exceptionally tall, but he could at least look down on Marguerite. Barely. “Very well. Citizeness Blakeney, you are under arrest. If you will accompany me?”

Marguerite paled slightly but otherwise held herself together, sweeping past Chauvelin to descend the stairs. Chauvelin used these few seconds to think very quickly indeed.

If Marguerite had turned up at the _Chat Gris,_ that made it not unlikely that she believed the Pimpernel or one of his associates would appear as well. Since it was absolutely imperative that Chauvelin not appear at all suspicious to Sir Percy, he would have to be properly menacing to Marguerite. On the other hand, however, he had to make sure she ‘escaped’ or was ‘rescued’ at the proper time.

Until Sir Percy arrived, Marguerite would be safer under Chauvelin’s guard than anywhere else in France, and if she ran off and got herself arrested by someone else she might go straight to the guillotine. He had to hold on to her until he was sure she would be in safe hands, but he also had to make sure that she felt very unsafe indeed.

By the time they descended the stairs Antoine had thankfully stopped singing; whether he had realised it was no longer appropriate to the scenario or merely finished the piece Chauvelin was unsure, but at least it made things a little less difficult to explain.

“Attention!” Chauvelin snapped as he reached the bottom step of the staircase.

Antoine was already standing, and Sebastienne jumped to her feet to join him, quickly amending her lovelorn expression into one of proper military severity. Chauvelin was certain that both his subordinates recognised Marguerite—perhaps not by name, but certainly they would remember her well enough from Lord Grenville’s ball. Marguerite also seemed to remember them, and Chauvelin was a little annoyed that her glare in their direction was less heated than the one she had aimed at him.

“Pierrefonds! Dufour!” Chauvelin began, using the sternly commanding tones that he generally reserved for those he was trying to intimidate. Antoine did flinch a little, but Sebastienne remained unruffled, not that Chauvelin cared: this act was intended for Marguerite. “This woman—” he gave Marguerite a little push into the center of the room “—is a confederate of the Scarlet Pimpernel. You two will guard her. As she is the key to capturing the Pimpernel, you will of course understand that it will be worth your lives if you let her escape.”

As he finished speaking and Antoine and Sebastienne feigned appropriately threatened expressions (although Antoine’s might have been more than just pretended), Brogard shuffled back into the room carrying a tray bearing a few bowls, a tureen of soup, and a small loaf of bread.

“Ah, Citizen Brogard,” Chauvelin said after the tray had been laid on the table. “How comes it that an accomplice of the Scarlet Pimpernel is sheltering under your roof?”

Brogard paled under this accusation, but responded with habitual stolid sullenness. “Her money was good,” he protested. “If I asked who people worked for I should soon have no customers.”

The innkeeper had a point, and both of them knew Chauvelin had taken advantage of this state of affairs more than once. Brogard, of course, could not know why, but he cared just as little whether it was an agent of the Committee of the Public Safety or the wife of the Scarlet Pimpernel staying in his establishment.

“Since this has turned out to be such a happy coincidence,” Chauvelin responded after an uncomfortable pause, “I can overlook your carelessness just this once; but you had best get yourself out of the way for the rest of the night. Understood?”

“Neither I nor my wife will stir from our room until you leave,” Brogard promised obsequiously, Chauvelin’s implied threat giving him incentive to be more polite. “By your leave, Citizen?”

Chauvelin waved the innkeeper away and watched until he had retreated all the way into the back room of the _Chat Gris._

Once he was certain they were no longer being observed, he turned back to his two subordinates and their charge. Marguerite was now seated in the most stable of the chairs at the little table, with Antoine in the one beside to her and Sebastienne standing directly behind her. She seemed quite calm outwardly, but her hands were white as they clutched at a fold of her fine violet gown.

“Now that that’s settled,” Chauvelin began, “preparations have to be made for our guest of honour. We can’t afford to spoil our little surprise for him, of course, so Lady Blakeney must be kept out of sight—in that little attic, say.”

“Couldn’t we guard her in the kitchen?” Antoine spoke up.

While Chauvelin was not surprised at this interruption, he was more than a little surprised at the source of it; he usually expected that sort of thing from Sebastienne. Antoine had always been much more mild and demure, but perhaps his sweetheart’s temperament was finally beginning to rub off on him a little. “And why the kitchen?”

Antoine looked a bit surprised at his sudden attack of insubordination as well. “Well, you see...I mean...this bread is terrible,” he blurted out finally. “So I thought if we were in the kitchen, maybe…”

Marguerite was beginning to look terribly perplexed, so Chauvelin cut in before Antoine could damage his reputation as a villain any further. “Very well, you can keep her hostage in the kitchen. But she had better not escape!” he reiterated.

“Of course not, Citizen!” Sebastienne promised quickly, before ushering both Antoine and Marguerite out of the room.

* * *

Once the door of the kitchen had shut safely behind Marguerite, Chauvelin leaned on the back of her chair with a weary sigh before proceeding with his preparations for Sir Percy’s arrival.

It was not only to keep Marguerite out of the way that he had assigned Sebastienne and Antoine to guard her; they were entirely too unpredictable sometimes and he could not risk one of them making a scene in front of Sir Percy. In order to get them through this safely, Chauvelin would have to play the villain, laugh and gloat, and then probably get knocked over the head or something so Sir Percy could carry off his lovely bride and be hailed as the hero of the day. While he was not usually frustrated at the lack of praise he received due to the secrecy of his actions, it was infuriating to think of that horrid nincompoop being admired by an entire generation of Englishmen.

“Just what I had planned for the evening,” Chauvelin grumbled, making sure the table was as neat and steady as possible before seating himself at it to await Sir Percy.

He did not have to wait long; only the amount of time it took to adjust his slightly damp cravat into a state that he hoped the fop would not find worthy of mockery, for he was determined to try as hard as possible to avoid utter humiliation this night.

Percy was being rather less than secretive when he arrived—in fact, his entrance could without exaggeration be described as theatrical. To judge from the sounds outside, he galloped up to the door and leaped off, then trod heavily up the path.

Despite the trouble Chauvelin had taken to steel himself to exposure to the fop, he still jumped when the door of the _Chat Gris_ was flung open, Percy’s enthusiasm nearly taking it off its rusty hinges. Just as Chauvelin had eschewed disguise on this occasion, Sir Percy Blakeney was also making no attempt to hide his identity, although he was thankfully dressed with a modicum more taste than the horror that had been his ensembles at Lord Grenville’s ball. Only a modicum, mind; his cravat was still gigantic, his cuffs still overflowing with lace, and his open overcoat exposed a coat that was still impeccably tailored, and, to Chauvelin’s disgust, bright pink.

“Hey, Brogard!” Sir Percy called, striding into the room. He must have noticed Chauvelin as soon as he opened the door (even if he had not known of his presence in Calais already) but he affected surprise as he turned to the table. “Why, demme if it isn’t Monsieur Chau...Monsieur Chouvernon?”

“ _Chauvelin!_ ”

“Right, quite right, abominable bad form of me,” Percy apologised breezily, none of his infuriatingly unflappable cheer abated in the least from their last encounter. “But what brings you here, Monsieur...let’s just leave it at Monsieur, shall we? I had no idea the Committee of Public Safety was so hard up that this is the only sort of lodging they can afford for their agents. Lud, look at this hole!” Here Percy pulled out a lace-adorned handkerchief to brush off one of the chairs before seating himself opposite Chauvelin. “Do you mind?” he said, pointing at the soup. “I’m demmed famished.”

Chauvelin shoved the soup across the table, enjoying the little yelp Percy made when it nearly sloshed onto his lace cuffs. “And what brings you to this ‘hole,’ Sir Percy?” Chauvelin asked.

Percy shrugged. “Does your new government forbid a man to visit his tailor? Zounds, what a beastly policy!”

“I see no tailors here,” Chauvelin pointed out.

“Yes, more’s the pity,” Percy sighed. “Alas! My heart weeps for your poor cravat.”

Chauvelin wished now that he had thrown the soup. “Sir Percy,” he ground out through clenched jaws, “let us be frank with each other.”

“You should be frank with whoever tailored that monstrosity of a coat for you,” Percy retorted. “If you are guillotining tailors, he should be at the head of the line.”

“How is your charming wife, Sir Percy?” Chauvelin tried, hoping that the mention of Marguerite might convince him to be serious for once—if he was in fact capable of such. Perhaps he wasn’t the Scarlet Pimpernel after all, and Chauvelin was sitting here letting himself be made a fool of for nothing!

The slight flicker in Percy’s eyes at the implied threat did away with that theory. Chauvelin wasn’t sure whether or not he was relieved. “Zounds, man, what a change of subject!” Percy replied with that insufferable inane laugh, removing a snuff-box from a pocket of his waistcoat. “Was there some message you wanted me to convey to the little woman, what?”

“Actually,” Chauvelin said, doing his best to reflect Percy’s affected tone of indifference, “I rather thought I could offer the reverse to you.”

The snuff-box flew out of Percy’s grip, landing open on the tablecloth. “Lud, how demmed clumsy of me,” Percy laughed with a flutter of lace cuffs as he swept up a little pile of snuff that had been spilled. “I do appreciate the offer, but I hardly see the need...demme, I _am_ her husband, you know.”

“Husband or no, you might find it difficult to get in touch with her now that she has been arrested by order of the Committee of Public Safety.”

“What, really?” Rather than concerned, as Chauvelin had expected, Percy sounded fascinated at this revelation. “And how has the dear girl managed that?”

Chauvelin was by now quite fed up with Sir Percy’s foppish little games. “She married the Scarlet Pimpernel!” he snapped.

Percy sat frozen in his chair for a few seconds, the snuff-box still clutched in one dainty hand. “The Scarlet…?” he gasped finally.

“Yes,” Chauvelin stated. “ _Now_ can we be frank with each other?”

“Then, you think—you think _I’m_ the Pimpernel?” Percy burst into a prolonged peal of laughter, so forceful that Chauvelin almost thought he might fall out of his chair. “Zounds, Monsieur, how diverting! But quite ridiculous, what?”

“Perhaps it is ridiculous,” Chauvelin conceded, eyeing Percy’s pink suit. “But the fact remains that she was arrested as a confederate of the Pimpernel, and will be sent to Paris for trial on the morrow. And Parisian trials are...efficient, lately.” At least Percy was not laughing now, but there was still no sign of any forthcoming decisive action. _One of us has to have a plan or this will go on all night,_ Chauvelin thought in frustration. “Of course, if the actual Pimpernel were available to be tried in her stead, I might be able to effect her release.”

“So that’s your game.” Finally, it seemed, Sir Percy was willing to shed the mask of the foppish dandy and enter into a serious discussion. Before Chauvelin could take advantage of this new opening, however, a series of sounds from the kitchen drew both men’s attention.

It began with the sound of cabinet doors being slammed repeatedly, accompanied with the sound of muffled arguing. This was of no surprise to Chauvelin (he was used to the eccentricities of his subordinates) but the strange sequence of yelps and clambering sounds which followed was. Finally, and most arresting, was a loud porcelain crash and a shriek that was instantly identifiable as Marguerite’s.

“Lud, what _are_ they up to in there?” Percy said, half-rising from his chair.

Chauvelin moved to block his path—not that he really thought he could stop Sir Percy from getting somewhere he really wanted to go, for he was far stronger than would be assumed from his fastidious exterior and nearly half a foot taller than Chauvelin if he stood to his full height. Sir Percy did not, however, make any attempt to push Chauvelin out of the way. A few seconds later the door to the kitchen flew open and Sebastienne bounded out, covered in flour and followed by a cloud of the same, which prevented any view of the scene inside the kitchen.

“Pierrefonds! What happened?” Chauvelin demanded.

Sebastienne darted across the room to snatch up an abandoned feather-duster on one of the other tables. “Absolutely nothing!” she declared with remarkable conviction before dashing back into the kitchen and slamming the door.

Deciding that whatever had happened (for despite Sebastienne’s statement something obviously had), it wasn’t something he wanted to pursue just now, Chauvelin turned back to Sir Percy. He was annoyed to see that his opponent had recovered his foppish composure in this brief respite.

“Snuff?” Percy offered blandly, holding out the snuff-box. Chauvelin did not voice his refusal, merely glaring at the insufferable wretch until he sheepishly drew his hand back. “Well. Suit yourself.”

By now they were at an impasse. Chauvelin had no intention of actually capturing the Scarlet Pimpernel, but neither could he let him merely walk away—even if his pride would have permitted it, he had to be able to prove he had tried in case the Committee of Public Safety decided to get on his case about it. On the other hand, it seemed Sir Percy did not yet feel threatened enough to expose his secret identity and escape by force, even with his wife brought into the equation. It was infuriating how flippantly he was treating the danger Marguerite was in, even if it was only a feint on Chauvelin’s part.

To get the results he wanted, Chauvelin would have to up the stakes. But if he went too much further he would put himself at real risk, considering the reputation of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Most of the rumours and stories about the Pimpernel were almost certainly mere fabrication, but if even a small portion were true the mysterious rescuer could be very dangerous when cornered.

Despite the legendary reputation of his alter ego, however, Sir Percy looked perfectly meek and innocent, albeit exceedingly annoying. “This whole business is absurd, what?” he said finally, covering a yawn. “Do pardon me, it’s getting demmed late. I have an appointment with my tailor tomorrow, do you mind?”

“Not at all,” Chauvelin said with a false smile. “You may visit your wife in Paris before her execution—I expect it will be at the end of this week.”

The muscles around Percy’s jaw tightened just a little but he still made no move towards the door of the kitchen. _For Heaven’s sake,_ Chauvelin thought in frustration, _hurry up! What else do you need me to threaten before you do something?_

At least Percy made no attempt to leave without Marguerite. Had he done so, Chauvelin would have gone back to his pre-epiphany plan of paying Sebastienne to poison the fop (or drown him, or both, or whatever she could think up) and leave Marguerite with all his lands and money. It would have been no more than he deserved, rescuer of innocents or no.

“You keep going back to this business of executing my wife,” Percy pouted. “Demme, it’s most depressing.”

“I have told you the terms by which she can be saved,” Chauvelin pointed out. “It is no concern of mine if you choose not to fulfill them.”

“Lud, man, how many times must I tell you I’m not that silly hero? Dashing about hither and yon, buckling swashes and whatnot: odd’s fish, but it would be too exhausting!” Percy laughed again, and it was only because that laugh had been inflicted on him so many times in the last few weeks that Chauvelin was able to recognise the strain in it.

“Either Marguerite Blakeney or the Scarlet Pimpernel must go to the guillotine,” Chauvelin repeated for what he estimated was about the fifth time in this discussion. “Which will it be?”

“You’re so demmed determined,” Percy observed blandly, examining a stitch in his lace cuffs. “I should hate to be the Scarlet Pimpernel with you after him like this.”

“Which. Will. It. Be?” Chauvelin growled, resorting to words of one syllable in hopes they would get through Sir Percy’s (perfectly coiffed) head.

“I say, but you wouldn’t guillotine a lady while she’s covered in flour, would you?” Sir Percy protested, rather nonsensically, Chauvelin thought, and altogether missing the point of the whole thing. “At least let me see her, what? I can ask her what clothes she would like sent over from London for the occasion.”

At this point Chauvelin would have agreed to anything that looked like the beginning of an escape scheme, but he made sure not to look too happy about it. “I suppose there’s no harm in it,” he said. “Perhaps she can convince you to stop being so stubborn.”

“Zounds, man, I’m not stubborn at all,” Percy laughed. “I’m just not the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

Chauvelin ignored this last barb as he stepped past Sir Percy to knock sharply on the door of the kitchen. After a few seconds of indistinguishable whispering from inside the room, Antoine opened the door, holding a large bowl full of what Chauvelin assumed was bread dough. He was remarkably unfloured, so either he had been out of range when the original incident occurred or Sebastienne had been very efficient in cleaning up (for Chauvelin had no doubts as to who had been responsible).

Seeing Chauvelin’s glower, Antoine quickly hid the bowl behind his back and stood at attention. “Yes, Citizen!”

“Bring the woman out,” Chauvelin ordered.

Antoine wavered. “Are you...sure, Citizen?” he asked nervously, glancing behind him.

“Yes! Now move!” Chauvelin snapped.

Antoine flinched and slammed the door. After a few more seconds of indistinguishable whispering from behind the door, Sebastienne opened it and stepped out, leading Marguerite by the arm.

Chauvelin could not guess what exactly had happened inside the kitchen, speculations as to responsibility notwithstanding, but Marguerite had clearly been in the front lines of the floury assault. Her face and hands were relatively clean, giving some evidence of what use the feather duster had been put to, but her dress was several shades paler than it had been when she first entered the kitchen and her hair shed little puffs of flour as she walked.

Sebastienne was slightly more presentable, her coat being mostly flourless but her hair in about the same state. Still, she did a remarkably good job of remaining serious. Antoine would probably have burst out laughing or apologising, which would both have been very hard for Chauvelin to explain.

“Percy!” Marguerite gasped, yanking her arm out of Sebastienne’s grip and dashing over to her husband. Despite his foppish attitude so far, Percy made no attempt to avoid her embrace even though it inevitably left his clothing (and worse, his cravat) covered in flour. “Percy, you must get out of here at once! Chauvelin is—”

“Never mind Chauvelin,” Percy interrupted her, his voice losing its inanely grating quality and taking on a surprisingly gentle tone as he brushed a bit of flour out of her hair. “What on earth has happened to you, my dear?”

“Well, we...that is, Dufour...the cabinets...it’s really quite hard to explain,” Marguerite floundered. “But Percy, you really must—”

“Yes,” said Sir Percy distantly, “I suppose I must.” Gently removing himself from Marguerite’s grip, he turned back to face Chauvelin. “My boat is anchored just off shore. Do you give your word she will be escorted there without harm?”

“Upon my honour,” Chauvelin promised with complete sincerity.

“Well,” smirked Sir Percy, “I guess that will do in a pinch. I accept your terms.”

 _Finally_! Chauvelin rejoiced internally, letting only a cold smile show on his face. “Pierrefonds, take her.”

“No!” Marguerite shouted as Sebastienne pulled her towards the door of the _Chat Gris_. “No! Percy! Percy, I love you!”

All in all, Chauvelin thought as the door slammed on Marguerite’s desperate cries, his reputation as the villain of this piece came out rather well.

And now for whatever Sir Percy had planned for him.

 


	8. The Snuff-Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course no humorous Scarlet Pimpernel story is truly complete without an appearance from Sir Percy's **Snuffbox of Doom!**  
>  (Chauvelin would rather do without it, though...)

Both men stood silent until Marguerite’s and Sebastienne’s footsteps could no longer be heard outside. From the dragging sounds on the gravel path Marguerite was doing her best to get back to her husband’s side, but it would ruin everything if she escaped now, for Chauvelin would lose his excuse to set her free if his ‘terms’ were broken.

“Now what?” Sir Percy asked finally.

Chauvelin stared at him blankly for a moment, then quickly turned away to hide his confusion. To be honest, he had no idea what to do next; he had been expecting Percy to make a move as soon as his wife was safely out of the way. Unfortunately, it seemed the Pimpernel was waiting for his opponent to reveal his plans first.

“My reinforcements will arrive in a few hours,” Chauvelin lied—he could call on no-one in Calais without exposing the fact that he had left Paris without notifying the authorities. “You will be escorted to Paris as soon as they are here.” Now that he had established a window of time in which Percy would have an opportunity for his escape, Chauvelin hoped he wouldn’t have to be stuck with the insufferable fop too much longer.

Percy, however, did not seem to have any such inclination currently. He settled back onto one of the chairs with languid elegance, as if he were at a court ball instead of in a filthy smugglers’ inn. “Lud, at least that beastly rain has stopped, what?” he smiled. “I was afraid it would entirely take the starch out of my cravat, and that would be too wretched, to be guillotined in a de-starched cravat.”

Chauvelin wondered vaguely how far Percy would take this obsession with cravats. Was it a real aspect of his personality, or just another part of that inane mask he put on to hide his identity and irritate his enemies? “I don’t know that they let people wear cravats to the guillotine at all,” Chauvelin stated blandly. “Something about the machinery.”

Mask or not, Percy looked horrified at this assertion. “Zounds, you can’t be serious!” he gasped. “Why, I wouldn’t be caught dead without—” he cut himself off quickly with a little shudder. “It’s demmed criminal, I say! I shall write to the _Times_.”

Chauvelin was beginning to notice some familiarity in this behaviour. Suddenly, as Sir Percy delicately covered a slight yawn, Chauvelin came to a devastating realisation.

The Scarlet Pimpernel had no plan either.

In truth, Chauvelin could not see what the delay was; it should have been a simple matter for Sir Percy to overpower him, considering the difference in size between them, and once he was outside in the dark Chauvelin’s reinforcements would never be able to catch him (even if they had actually existed). Perhaps it was concern for Marguerite that held him back, but Chauvelin could not imagine that the Scarlet Pimpernel would meekly surrender like this.

Well, perhaps ‘meek’ was the wrong word, Chauvelin decided as Percy held out the snuff-box again. “No!” he snapped before Percy could even begin to offer.

Percy shrugged and set the snuff-box down on the table before reaching into his waistcoat again. _Please pull a pistol or a knife on me,_ Chauvelin pleaded mentally. _I just want you to go away!_

Alas for Chauvelin’s hopes, Percy took out an ordinary deck of cards. “Whist?” he suggested, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

Chauvelin would have preferred this hopeful gleam to be in reference to other pastimes, such as escaping. Still, perhaps whist would be a means to an end for Percy. Chauvelin knew he was probably deceiving himself with this hope, but he wanted to believe that one of them had some sort of plan. “You can’t play whist with two,” he pointed out.

“Your other guard is still in the kitchen,” Percy replied. “Might he be convinced to join?”

Chauvelin was beginning to feel the pangs of a miserable headache, but he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Very well,” he sighed, telling himself that giving in might make Percy’s escape come a bit faster. “Dufour! Get out here!”

Antoine quickly appeared from the kitchen, brushing flour off his coat before standing at attention. “Yes, Citizen!” He was clearly bursting with questions, most of them doubtless about Sebastienne’s current location and state of risk, but was circumspect enough to keep them to himself in the presence of Sir Percy. “Your orders?”

“Do you play whist, my lad?” Percy enquired from the table.

Antoine stared at him in confusion, then to Chauvelin, who gave him a small shrug as a signal to go along with Percy’s madness. “No, I don’t think—” Antoine began.

“Never you mind, it’s demmed easy!” Percy promised briskly, standing up to clear the table and smooth out the cloth. “Now, we’ll have to play three-handed, but you don’t mind being without a partner, do you, Monsieur Shaverton? If you’ll take a seat here, then, and—Dufour, was it? You sit there across from me, just so.”

Chauvelin fumed briefly in irritation that Percy had managed to get Antoine’s name right but not his own. Thus distracted, he took a few seconds to realise that Percy had contrived to put himself in the seat closest to the door. Maybe the whist game would lead to an escape attempt after all.

Percy spent a few minutes rapidly explaining the concepts of the game to Antoine, but Chauvelin ignored the stream of persiflage as best he could, preferring to take this time to think. When Sir Percy escaped Chauvelin would have to make some attempt to stop him, of course, since he couldn’t have Percy thinking that it had been too easy, but if possible he would like not to be too badly hurt in the process. Also, if Percy waited too long Sebastienne might return, and now that Antoine was involved she might be inclined to fight in his defence. Since Chauvelin would rather things be kept in the ‘minor scuffle’ range, where there was less risk of injury, he hoped Percy would make his move as soon as possible.

“Would you like to deal, Monsieur—”

“Chauvelin!” Chauvelin exclaimed before waiting to hear how Percy would butcher his name this time. “And _no._ ”

“Very well. Let us begin: and allow me to remind you that whist is a game to be played in absolute silence.”

* * *

The first hand went by relatively quickly, apart from a few brief pauses to explain points of order to Antoine. Chauvelin discovered, to his surprise, that in a situation where Sir Percy Blakeney was forced to be silent he was not a bad opponent for a card game. While Chauvelin had not played whist in years—not since he had frequented Marguerite’s salons when she was still Mademoiselle St. Just—the fact that Percy’s partner was a complete novice evened things out nicely.

At the end of the hand, Percy and Antoine had won eight tricks to Chauvelin’s five, thus gaining two points. Percy pushed his chair back and stretched. “A capital way to spend an evening, what?” he laughed. “I don’t suppose there’s anything to drink…”

“There was a bottle of wine in the kitchen,” Antoine volunteered. “I don’t think it fell.”

“Go fetch it,” Chauvelin ordered, deciding that conceding to Percy’s mad whims would be the quickest way of getting the next hand started so he would shut up again.

Antoine scurried off, leaving Chauvelin alone with Percy again. _This would be the perfect time for you to try and escape,_ Chauvelin thought. _Why don’t you get on with it?_

Percy indeed showed no sign that he had noticed the opportunity currently before him. He swept up the cards with skilled rapidity—no doubt gained through experience in the Prince of Wales’ card-room—shuffled them repeatedly, then laid the assembled deck neatly in front of Antoine’s seat in readiness for the next hand. This done, he settled back in his chair again, pulling out the snuff-box. “Will you indulge, Monsieur?” he asked, holding the box out to Chauvelin.

“ _Non, merci,_ ” Chauvelin replied, feeling charitable enough after the pleasant hand of whist to expend a little bit of civility on Sir Percy.

“Are you sure?” Percy pressed. “Demmed good snuff, this. I bought it in Bath. It’s imported from...Lud, I forget. But it’s very good snuff.”

Chauvelin’s civility was being exhausted quickly now that Percy was talking again, but he gritted his teeth and took the snuff-box from Percy’s hand. “If it will stop you going on and on about it,” he muttered as he opened the box and took out a pinch of snuff.

The hopeful light was back in Percy’s eyes, but Chauvelin did not notice it until it was too late. As he inhaled the snuff, Chauvelin immediately felt as if his head had exploded. Racked with painful sneezes, he tumbled from the chair, flailing uselessly in an attempt to catch himself as he fell.

“Citizen Chauvelin!” Antoine gasped, rushing in from the kitchen. “Are you alright, Citizen?”

Chauvelin was unable to reply as sneeze after violent sneeze shook him. Antoine patted his back timidly, which did nothing to alleviate his torment.

Chauvelin was unsure how long he remained trapped in this paroxysm of sneezes; it felt like hours although logically it must have been far less. When he was finally recovered enough to regain some degree of autonomy, it was to the realisation that he and Antoine were the only ones left in the dining room of the _Chat Gris._

“What happened, Citizen?” Antoine asked, helping Chauvelin to a slightly shaking standing position.

Chauvelin used his tricolour sash to wipe his streaming eyes. “That miserable nincompoop!” he snarled, interspersed with a few stray sneezes. “The snuff-box…” Staggering over to where Percy had set the tray he had moved off the table, Chauvelin opened the pepper-shaker and immediately found his suspicions confirmed.

Rather than overcome his antagonist in a fair fight, the Scarlet Pimpernel had chosen to humiliate his opponent with a grand-scale version of a child’s prank. It was with great effort that Chauvelin resisted the urge to hurl the pepper-shaker across the room.

“At least we’re rid of him now,” Chauvelin muttered, softly enough that only Antoine could hear him. “Go get ready to leave,” he added, a little louder.

“But the bread—” Antoine protested.

“Never mind your bread! We’re leaving as soon as Pierrefonds gets back. We can’t let the Pimpernel escape!” Chauvelin shouted these last lines so as not to give the wrong impression to anyone listening in.

Antoine blinked in confusion but hurried to obey Chauvelin’s orders rather than point out his self-contradiction.

Chauvelin poured himself a glass of water to ease his burning throat, leaning against the wall for some support as he drank it. If Percy’s aim had been to render him powerless, Chauvelin would far rather have been knocked unconscious than bear this.

“I’m back!” Sebastienne shouted, flinging the door of the _Chat Gris_ open in a painful duplication of Percy’s earlier treatment of them. Chauvelin winced at the noise; his headache was at near-incapacitating proportions now but he had to keep himself together long enough to get them started back to Paris.

“ _Parbleu_ , what happened in here?” Sebastienne remarked as she surveyed the room. There was reason for her astonishment; Chauvelin had pulled the tablecloth off the table in the course of his collapse, and Percy’s deck of cards was now strewn all across the room, accompanied by two overturned chairs. Chauvelin remembered toppling one of them—Percy had probably been responsible for the other when he fled.

“Pierrefonds!” Chauvelin snapped with as much force as he could muster, stepping away from the shadowed wall and into her field of vision.

“ _Parbleu_ , what happened to _you_?” Sebastienne gasped once she saw him.

“Pierrefonds!”

“I mean, yes, Citizen!”

“We ride out at once in pursuit of the Pimpernel!” Chauvelin ordered loudly. “Dufour! We’re leaving!”

“Yes, Citizen!” Antoine replied, hurrying out of the kitchen in response to Chauvelin’s command.

* * *

A few minutes later, Chauvelin, Antoine and Sebastienne were galloping along the cliffs that overlooked the Channel. This was mostly so that Chauvelin could claim he had actually given chase, as he was not sure that his excursion to Calais could be kept a secret now. However, the ride had the added benefit of the cool night air serving to soothe his burning eyes and aching head.

“You can see their boat from here, Citizen!” Sebastienne announced, reining her horse to a halt. “Look, that’s where I dropped off Lady Blakeney.”

Chauvelin took the spyglass Sebastienne handed him, training it on the yacht that was just now hauling up anchor offshore.

Percy had apparently arrived only moments before, for as they watched, Marguerite appeared on deck and dashed into his arms. Percy embraced her warmly, pulling her off her feet and twirling her around on the narrow deck. As Percy set her down and gently cupped her face in his hands, Chauvelin decided he had seen about enough and lowered the spyglass.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. “We at least need to be out of Calais by daylight, in case Brogard talks.”

_ You should be grateful I saved your marriage, Sir Percy,  _ Chauvelin thought as he turned his horse inland. _ Not that you can ever find out. _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually know how to play whist, but I cribbed off [this guide](http://www.pagat.com/whist/whist.html) and tried to make everything look natural.


	9. Back to Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chauvelin salvages his dignity after his encounter with the Pimpernel, and actually thinks things are going well until the ~~author~~ universe realises its oversight.

“It has come to our attention that you undertook a journey to Calais without notifying our Committee beforehand. You must know that this goes against all our decrees regarding official movement.”

“Yes, Citizen.” Chauvelin stood respectfully before the desk of the Committee of Public Safety’s chosen spokesman, trying to achieve a happy medium in his posture between timidity and over-confidence. The Committee would pounce on any sign of weakness, but they would also react viciously to anything that seemed to hint of rebellion or even resentment of their authority.

“For what purpose?”

“I was in pursuit of the Scarlet Pimpernel. I had to act at once or he would escape.”

“And yet it seems he has escaped after all, for you brought no prisoner back to Paris.”

“No,” Chauvelin admitted. “I apologise.”

“Do you realise what a waste of money such a trip is? An express carriage, an inn, hired horses for the return? The Committee cannot afford to fund such extravagance without results!”

Chauvelin wondered what the anonymous informer who had told on him could possibly have said about his trip that would have given the Committee the impression that the _Chat Gris_ was ‘extravagant’. “I paid for the carriage and the horses out of my own pocket,” he said in his defence. “The inn was the cheapest in Calais.”

“An admirable sacrifice on your part, but still with nothing to show for it.”

“I will have the advantage next time,” Chauvelin declared. “I have learnt much about the Pimpernel’s methods now.”

“What makes you think there will be a next time?” demanded the spokesman. “ _La Division Anti-Penchants Subversifs_ is not indispensable to the Committee of Public Safety. If you do not soon prove that it has some worth it will be disbanded, and your career will come to a permanent end in _la Place de la Révolution!_ ”

“Were the Committee to send me to Madame Guillotine, they would lose more than a fervent servant of the Republic,” Chauvelin said with deliberate calm despite the fact that he was shaken by the threat. “Any future chance of apprehending the Pimpernel would be lost as well.”

“What do you mean by that?” the spokesman snapped. “Do you dare to threaten the Committee?”

“Of course not,” Chauvelin smiled, raising his head to look the spokesman squarely in the face. “But you see, I am the only one who knows the true identity of the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

* * *

“I’m so glad you came back!” Antoine gushed at the Anti-SP Division’s supper meeting that evening in the dining room of the inn. “When the Committee sent for you I thought we were all done for!”

Chauvelin smiled, still basking in his little triumph over his superiors earlier in the day. “Not to worry—as long as I’m the only one who knows that incorrigible fop Blakeney is the Pimpernel they can’t do a thing, so we’ve nothing to fear. Ah, Desgas, do take that pepper-shaker away,” he added as his factotum brought in the supper tray.

“I’ll put it back in the kitchen,” Desgas said, picking it up.

“No, no, I want you to destroy it. Painfully.”

Desgas gave Chauvelin a rather baffled stare. “Yes, Citizen…” he said in a soothing tone, backing towards the kitchen with the pepper-shaker in hand. “Whatever you say...”

All of them were surprised by a sudden pounding on the outer door of the inn. Antoine paled, putting down a slice of his fresh-baked bread. “You don’t suppose that’s the Committee again, do you?” he asked breathlessly.

“I’ll go check,” Sebastienne said, picking up the crossbow she had left by the door and drawing the string into place as she stepped outside.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Desgas said calmly, returning empty-handed from the kitchen. “The Committee has enough to distract them that they will have forgotten about us completely by now. They always do.”

“I hope so…” responded Antoine, not sounding very convinced.

“Hey, Citizen?” Sebastienne leaned through the door of the dining room to give her report. “There’s some kind of dirty small child asking for you.”

“Tell him we don’t want any denunciations, and he’ll have to go someplace else,” Chauvelin ordered, setting back into his supper with relief.

“It’s a girl, but sure thing,” Sebastienne replied, vanishing again. A muffled shout of “We don’t want any denunciations!” could be heard a few moments later.

“She says she doesn’t want to denunciate anybody,” Sebastienne relayed on her next reappearance in the dining room. “She says she’s just _got_ to talk to Citizen Chauvelin.” Sebastienne mimicked a tone of girlish stubbornness that somehow sounded vaguely familiar.

Chauvelin sighed. “All right, where’s she from?”

“Hang on, I’ll ask.” Sebastienne left again only to return after a few seconds in indistinguishable discussion at the gate. “She says Lou Mas. Where’s that?”

Chauvelin somehow managed to keep from choking on the bite of bread he had just taken. “Oh, mais non,” he gasped, shoving his chair back and running past Sebastienne into the courtyard.

He couldn’t believe it, but the figure standing in the partially open gate, dirty and dressed like a Parisian street urchin though she may have been, was instantly and dearly familiar to him.

“Bibi!” Fleurette cried, dashing over to embrace him with her cornflower-blue eyes gleaming with delight. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

“Currently, yes,” Chauvelin replied as he picked his daughter up and hugged her. Fleurette, his Fleurette, was in Paris—the most dangerous place in France for anyone, especially the relative of an official in the pay of the Committee of Public Safety. “Ask me again in an hour or so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone wondering about Fleurette should check out _Sir Percy Hits Back._


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy and Marguerite try to figure out what happened.

Percy and Marguerite Blakeney sat nestled together on the deck of the _Day Dream,_ watching the stars (and each other) as the elegant yacht bore them back to England and a new beginning for their life together.

“I must confess, I was never so happy or so terrified in all my life as when Chauvelin told me that he had arrested you at the _Chat Gris,_ ” Percy said, brushing some of the last remnants of flour out of Marguerite’s hair as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I had thought he might lay a trap for me, but that it would be you—”

“I had to do _something_ ,” Marguerite explained. “When I realised what I had done—what I had told him...oh, Percy, can you ever forgive me?”

“It’s myself I can hardly forgive, for not trusting you from the beginning.” Percy gave a little laugh, genuine and free of inane affectations. “You know,” he added, “Chauvelin may have tried to destroy us both, but if it weren’t for his scheming we would still be estranged.”

“I am very happy to have made up with you, Percy, but I positively refuse to be grateful to Chauvelin.”

“Quite right, of course.” Percy sighed in contentment as Marguerite put her arm around his waist. “By the way...what did happen in that kitchen?”

Marguerite frowned thoughtfully. “It all happened so fast I can hardly remember...Dufour was gathering the baking things, and then Pierrefonds was in the cabinet and suddenly there was flour everywhere! He did his best to clean me up but Chauvelin must have been furious with him afterwards.”

“Odd’s fish, it would serve young Pierrefonds right,” Percy stated without any sympathy. “First he strews you with flour, then he carries you off bodily to the coast—I shouldn’t be sorry if Chauvelin blamed the whole business on him!”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Marguerite coaxed gently. “I don’t think he and Dufour are bad sorts, even if they do work for Chauvelin. They haven’t got any choice in it; he threatened them with all sorts of terrible things if they let me escape.”

“That does not,” Percy reminded her, “excuse the flour.”

“That was an accident. Come now, let’s only be angry with Chauvelin.”

“Well, if you ask it, my dear Margot,” Percy conceded, kissing her fingers. “But I hope you will permit me to be very cross with Pierrefonds when I see him next.”

“Granted,” said Marguerite, and returned the kiss with interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the first installment in _The Adventures of the Anti-SP Division_. The next story is about 2/3 done and will be posted when it is finished and properly edited and Britishised. School is about to start for me, which will either speed up or slow down my writing dramatically.


End file.
